GIFT   OF 
MICHAEL  REESE 


SIGNS  AND  SEASONS 


BY 

JOHN    BURROUGHS 

AUTHOR  OF  "WAKE  ROBIN,"  "WINTER  SUNSHINE,"  "BIRDS  AND 

POETS,"  "LOCUSTS  AND  WILD  HONEY,"  "  PEPACTON," 

AND  "FRESH  FIELDS" 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 


1887 


Copyright,  1886, 
BY  JOHN  BURROUGHS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


SECOND   EDITION. 


The  Riverside  Prrss,  Cambridge: 
Electrotyped  aud  Printed  by  H.  O.  Hough  ton  &  Co. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

A  SHARP  LOOKOUT 1 

A  SPRAY  OF  PINE     .              37 

HARD  FARE 53 

THE  TRAGEDIES  OF  THE  NESTS 69 

A  SNOW-STORM      . ' 97 

A  TASTE  OF  MAINE  BIRCH 109 

WINTER  NEIGHBORS 139 

A  SALT  BREEZE        ....<,...  163 

A  SPRING  RELISH 179 

A  RIVER  VIEW .201 

BIRD  ENEMIES 221 

PHASES  OF  FARM  LIFE 241 

ROOF-TREE 271 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT. 


A  r 

UNH 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT. 

ONE  has  only  to  sit  down  in  the  woods  or  fields,  or 
by  the  shore  of  the  river  or  lake,  and  nearly  every- 
thing of  interest  will  come  round  to  him,  —  the  birds, 
the  animals,  the  insects ;  and  presently,  after  his  eye 
has  got  accustomed  to  the  place,  and  to  the  light  and 
shade,  he  will  probably  see  some  plant  or  flower  that 
he  had  sought  in  vain  for,  and  that  is  a  pleasant  sur- 
prise to  him.  So,  on  a  large  scale,  the  student  and 
lover  of  nature  has  this  advantage  over  people  who 
gad  up  and  down  the  world,  seeking  some  novelty  or 
excitement ;  he  has  only  to  stay  at  home  and  see  the 
procession  pass.  The  great  globe  swings  around  to 
him  like  a  revolving  show-case^  the  change  of  the 
seasons  is  like  the  passage  of  strange  and  new  coun- 
tries ;  the  zones  of  the  earth,  with  all  their  beauties 
and  marvels,  pass  one's  door,  and  linger  long  in  the 
passing.  What  a  voyage  is  this  we  make  without 
leaving  for  a  night  our  own  fireside !  St.  Pierre  well 
says  that  a  sense  of  the  power  and  mystery  of  nature 
shall  spring  up  as  fully  in  one's  heart  after  he  has 
made  the  circuit. of  his  own  field  as  after  returning 
from  a  voyage  round  the  world.  I  sit  here  amid  the 
junipers  of  the  Hudson,  with  purpose  every  year  to 
go  to  Florida,  or  to  the  West  Indies,  or  to  the  Pacific 


4  A  SHARP   LOOKOUT. 

coast,  yet  the  seasons  pass  and  I  am  still  loitering, 
with  a  half-defined  suspicion,  perhaps,  that,  if  I  re- 
main quiet  and  keep  a  sharp  lookout,  these  countries 
will  come  to  me.  I  may  stick  it  out  yet,  and  not 
miss  much  after  all.  The  great  trouble  is  for  Mo- 
hammed to  know  when  the  mountain  really  comes  to 
him.  Sometimes  a  rabbit  or  a  jay  or  a  little  warbler 
brings  the  woods  to  my  door.  A  loon  on  the  river, 
and  the  Canada  lakes  are  here  ;  the  sea-gulls  and  the 
fish-hawk  bring  the  sea ;  the  call  of  the  wild  gander 
at  night,  what  does  it  suggest  ?  and  the  eagle  flapping 
by  or  floating  along  on  a  raft  of  ice,  does  not  he  bring 
the  mountain  ?  One  spring  morning  five  swans  flew 
above  my  barn  in  single  file,  going  northward  —  an 
express  train  bound  for  Labrador.  It  was  a  more 
exhilarating  sight  than  if  I  had  seen  them  in  their 
native  haunts.  They  made  a  breeze  in  my  mind, 
like  a  noble  passage  in  a  poem.  How  gently  their 
great  wings  flapped;  how  easy  to  fly  when  spring 
gives  the  impulse  !  On  another  occasion  I  saw  a 
line  of  fowls,  probably  swans,  going  northward,  at 
such  a  height  that  they  appeared  like  a  faint,  wav- 
ing black  line  against  the  sky.  They  must  have  been 
at  an  altitude  of  two  or  three  miles.  I  was  looking 
intently  at  the  clouds  to  see  which  way  they  moved, 
when  the  birds  came  into  my  field  of  vision.  I  should 
never  have  seen  them  had  they  not  crossed  the  pre- 
cise, spot  upon  which  my  eye  was  fixed.  As  it  was 
near  sundown  they  were  probably  launched  for  an 
all-night  pull.  They  were  going  with  great  speed, 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT.  5 

and  as  they  swayed  a  little  this  way  and  that,  they 
suggested  a  slender,  all  but  invisible,  aerial  serpent 
cleaving  the  ether.  What  a  highway  was  pointed 
out  up  there !  —  an  easy  grade  from  the  Gulf  to  Hud- 
son's Bay. 

Then  the  typical  spring  and  summer  and  autumn 
days,  of  all  shades  and  complexions,  one  cannot  af- 
ford to  miss  any  of  them,  and  when  looked  out  upon 
from  one's  own  spot  of  earth,  how  much  more  beauti- 
ful and  significant  they  are  !  Nature  comes  home  to 
one  most  when  he  is  at  home ;  the  stranger  and  the 
traveler  finds  her  a  stranger  and  a  traveler  also.  One's 
own  landscape  comes  in  time  to  be  a  sort  of  outlying 
part  of  himself ;  he  has  sowed  himself  broadcast  upon 
it,  and  it  reflects  his  own  moods  and  feelings ;  he  is 
sensitive  to  the  verge  of  the  horizon  :  cut  those  trees, 
and  he  bleeds  ;  mar  those  hills,  and  he  suffers.  How 
has  the  farmer  planted  himself  in  his  fields ;  builded 
himself  into  his  stone  walls,  and  evoked  the  sympathy 
of  the  hills  by  his  struggle  !  This  home  feeling,  this 
domestication  of  nature,  is  important  to  the  observer. 
This  is  the  bird-lime  with  which  he  catches  the  bird  ; 
this  is  the  private  door  that  admits  him  behind  the 
scenes.  This  is  one  source  of  Gilbert  White's  charm, 
and  of  the  charm  of  Thoreau's  "  Walden." 

The  birds  that  come  about  one's  door  in  winter,  or 
that  build  in  his  trees  in  summer,  what  a  peculiar  in- 
terest they  have !  What  crop  have  I  sowed  in  Flor- 
ida or  in  California,  that  I  should  go  there  to  reap  ? 
I  should  be  only  a  visitor,  or  formal  caller  upon  nature, 


6  A  SHARP   LOOKOUT. 

and  the  family  would  all  wear  masks.  No  ;  the  place 
to  observe  nature  is  where  you  are  ;  the  walk  to  take 
to-day  is  the  walk  you  took  yesterday.  You  will  not 
find  just  the  same  things :  both  the  observed  and  the 
observer  have  changed ;  the  ship  is  on  another  tack 
in  both  cases. 

I  shall  probably  never  see  another  just  such  day  as 
yesterday  was,  because  one  can  never  exactly  repeat 
his  observation  —  cannot  turn  the  leaf  of  the  book  of 
life  backward,  and  because  each  day  has  characteris- 
tics of  its  own.  This  was  a  typical  March  day,  clear, 
dry,  hard,  and  windy,  the  river  rumpled  and  crumpled, 
the  sky  intense,  distant  objects  strangely  near  ;  a  day 
full  of  strong  light,  unusual ;  an  extraordinary  light- 
ness and  clearness  all  around  the  horizon,  as  if  there 
were  a  diurnal  aurora  streaming  up  and  burning 
through  the  sunlight;  smoke  from  the  first  spring 
fires  rising  up  in  various  directions ;  a  day  that  win- 
nowed the  air,  and  left  no  film  in  the  sky.  At  night, 
how  the  big  March  bellows  did  work!  Venus  was 
like  a  great  lamp  in  the  sky.  The  stars  all  seemed 
brighter  than  usual,  as  if  the  wind  blew  them  up  like 
burning  coals.  Venus  actually  seemed  to  flare  in  the 
wind. 

Each  day  foretells  the  next,  if  one  could  read  the 
signs  ;  to-day  is  the  progenitor  of  to-morrow.  When 
the  atmosphere  is  telescopic,  and  distant  objects  stand 
out  unusually  clear  and  sharp,  a  storm  is  near.  We 
are  on  the  crest  of  the  wave,  and  the  depression  fol- 
lows quickly.  It  often  happens  that  clouds  are  not  so 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT.  7 

indicative  of  a  storm  as  the  total  absence  of  clouds. 
In  this  state  of  the  atmosphere  the  stars  are  unusually 
numerous  and  bright  at  night,  which  is  also  a  bad 
omen. 

I  find  this  observation  confirmed  by  Humboldt. 
"  It  appears,"  he  says,  "  that  the  transparency  of  the 
air  is  prodigiously  increased  when  a  certain  quantity 
of  water  is  uniformly  diffused  through  it."  Again, 
he  says  that  the  mountaineers  of  the  Alps  "  predict 
a  change  of  weather,  when,  the  air  being  calm,  the 
Alps  covered  with  perpetual  snow  seem  on  a  sudden 
to  be  nearer  the  observer,  and  their  outlines  are 
marked  with  great  distinctness  on  the  azure  sky." 
He  further  observes  that  the  same  condition  of  the 
atmosphere  renders  distant  sounds  more  audible. 

There  is  one  redness  in  the  east  in  the  morning 
that  means  storm,  another  that  means  wind.  The 
former  is  broad,  deep,  and  angry ;  the  clouds  look  like 
a  huge  bed  of  burning  coals  just  raked  open ;  the  lat- 
ter is  softer,  more  vapory,  and  more  widely  extended. 
Just  at  the  point  where  the  sun  is  going  to  rise,  and 
some  minutes  in  advance  of  his  coming,  there  some- 
times rises  straight  upward  a  rosy  column ;  it  is  like 
a  shaft  of  deeply  dyed  vapor,  blending  with  and  yet 
partly  separated  from  the  clouds,  and  the  base  of 
which  presently  comes  to  glow  like  the  sun  itself. 
The  day  that  follows  is  pretty  certain  to  be  very 
windy.  At  other  times  the  under  sides  of  the  east- 
ern clouds  are  all  turned  to  pink  or  rose  colored 
wool;  the  transformation  extends  until  nearly  the 


8  A  SHARP  LOOKOUT. 

whole  sky  flushes,  even  the  west  glowing  slightly ; 
the  sign  is  always  to  be  interpreted  as  meaning  fair 
weather. 

The  approach  of  great  storms  is  seldom  heralded 
by  any  striking  or  unusual  phenomenon.  The  real 
weather  gods  are  free  from  brag  and  bluster ;  but  the 
sham  gods  fill  the  sky  with  portentous  signs  and 
omens.  I  recall  one  5th  of  March  as  a  day  that 
would  have  filled  the  ancient  observers  with  dreadful 
forebodings.  At  ten  o'clock  the  sun  was  attended  by 
four  extraordinary  sun-dogs.  A  large  bright  halo  en- 
compassed him,  on  the  top  of  which  the  segment  of 
a  larger  circle  rested,  forming  a  sort  of  heavy  bril- 
liant crown.  At  the  bottom  of  the  circle,  and  de- 
pending from  it,  was  a  mass  of  soft,  glowing,  irides- 
cent vapor.  On  either  side,  like  fragments  of  the 
larger  circle,  were  two  brilliant  arcs.  Altogether,  it 
was  the  most  portentous  storm-breeding  sun  I  ever 
beheld.  In  a  dark  hemlock  wood  in  a  valley,  the 
owls  were  hooting  ominously,  and  the  crows  dismally 
cawing.  Before  night  the  storm  set  in,  a  little  sleet 
and  rain  of  a  few  hours'  duration,  insignificant  enough 
compared  with  the  signs  and  wonders  that  preceded  it. 

To  what  extent  the  birds  or  animals  can  foretell 
the  weather  is  uncertain.  When  the  swallows  are 
seen  hawking  very  high  it  is  a  good  indication ;  the 
insects  upon  which  they  feed  venture  up  there  only  in 
the  most  auspicious  weather.  Yet  bees  will  continue 
to  leave  the  hive  when  a  storm  is  imminent.  I  am 
told  that  one  of  the  most  reliable  weather  signs  they 


A   SHARP   LOOKOUT.  9 

have  down  in  Texas  is  afforded  by  the  ants.  The 
ants  bring  their  eggs  up  out  of  their  underground  re- 
treats and  expose  them  to  the  warmth  of  the  sun  to 
be  hatched.  When  they  are  seen  carrying  them  in 
again  in  great  haste,  though  there  be  not  a  cloud  in 
the  sky,  your  walk  or  your  drive  must  be  postponed : 
a  storm  is  at  hand.  There  is  a  passage  in  Virgil  that 
is  doubtless  intended  to  embody  a  similar  observation, 
though  none  of  his  translators  seem  to  have  hit  its 
meaning  accurately :  — 

"  Saepius  et  tectis  penetralibus  extulit  ova 
Angustum  formica  terens  iter :  " 

"  Often  also  has  the  pismire  making  a  narrow  road 
brought  forth  her  eggs  out  of  the  hidden  recesses  " 
is  the  literal  translation  of  old  John  Martyn. 

"  Also  the  ant,  incessantly  traveling 
The  same  straight  way  with  the  eggs  of  her  hidden  store," 

is  one  of  the  latest  metrical  translations.  Dryden 
has  it :  — 

"  The  careful  ant  her  secret  cell  forsakes 
And  drags  her  eggs  along  the  narrow  tracks," 

which  comes  nearer  to  the  fact.  When  a  storm  is 
coming  Virgil  also  makes  his  swallows  skim  low  about 
the  lake,  which  agrees  with  the  observation  above. 

The  critical  moment  of  the  day  as  regards  the 
weather  is  at  sunrise  and  sunset.  A  clear  sunset 
is  always  a  good  sign ;  an  obscured  sun,  just  at  the 
moment  of  going  down,  after  a  bright  day,  bodes 
storm.  There  is  much  truth,  too,  in  the  saying  that 


10  A  SHARP  LOOKOUT. 

if  it  rain  before  seven,  it  will  clear  before  eleven. 
Nine  times  in  ten  it  will  turn  out  thus.  The  best 
time  for  it  to  begin  to  rain  or  snow,  if  it  wants  to 
hold  out,  is  about  mid-forenoon.  The  great  storms 
usually  begin  at  this  time.  On  all  occasions  the 
weather  is  very  sure  to  declare  itself  before  eleven 
o'clock.  If  you  are  going  on  a  picnic,  or  are  going 
to  start  on  a  journey,  and  the  morning  is  unsettled, 
wait  till  ten  and  one  half  o'clock,  and  you  shall  know 
what  the  remainder  of  the  day  will  be.  Midday 
clouds  and  afternoon  clouds,  except  in  the  season  of 
thunderstorms,  are  usually  harmless  idlers  and  vag- 
abonds. But  more  to  be  relied  on  than  any  obvious 
sign  is  that  subtle  perception  of  the  condition  of  the 
weather  which  a  man  has  who  spends  much  of  his 
time  in  the  open  air.  He  can  hardly  tell  how  he 
knows  it  is  going  to  rain ;  he  hits  the  fact  as  an 
Indian  does  the  mark  with  his  arrow,  without  calcu- 
lating and  by  a  kind  of  sure  instinct.  As  you  read 
a  man's  purpose  in  his  face,  so  you  learn  to  read  the 
purpose  of  the  weather  in  the  face  of  the  day. 

In  observing  the  weather,  however,  as  in  the  diag- 
nosis of  disease,  the  diathesis  is  all-important.  All 
signs  fail  in  a  drought,  because  the  predisposition,  the 
diathesis,  is  so  strongly  toward  fair  weather ;  and  the 
opposite  signs  fail  during  a  wet  spell,  because  nature 
is  caught  in  the  other  rut. 

Observe  the  lilies  of  the  field.  Sir  John  Lubbock 
says  the  dandelion  lowers  itself  after  flowering,  and 
lies  close  to  the  ground  while  it  is  maturing  its  seed, 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT.  11 

and  then  rises  up.  It  is  true  that  the  dandelion  lowers 
itself  after  flowering,  retires  from  society,  as  it  were, 
and  meditates  in  seclusion  ;  but  after  it  lifts  itself  up 
again  the  stalk  begins  anew  to  grow,  it  lengthens 
daily,  keeping  just  above  the  grass  till  the  fruit  is 
ripened,  and  the  little  globe  of  silvery  down  is  carried 
many  inches  higher  than  was  the  ring  of  golden  flow- 
ers. And  the  reason  is  obvious.  The  plant  depends 
upon  the  wind  to  scatter  its  seeds  ;  every  one  of  these 
little  vessels  spreads  a  sail  to  the  breeze,  and  it  is 
necessary  that  they  be  launched  above  the  grass  and 
weeds,  amid  which  they  would  be  caught  and  held 
did  the  stalk  not  continue  to  grow  and  outstrip  the 
rival  vegetation.  It  is  a  curious  instance  of  foresight 
in  a  weed. 

I  wish  I  could  read  as  clearly  this  puzzle  of  the 
button-balls  (American  plane-tree).  Why  has  Nature 
taken  such  particular  pains  to  keep  these  balls  hang- 
ing to  the  parent  tree  intact  till  spring  ?  What  secret 
of  hers  has  she  buttoned  in  so  securely  ?  for  these  but- 
tons will  not  come  off.  The  wind  cannot  twist  them 
off,  nor  warm  nor  wet  hasten  or  retard  them.  The 
stem,  or  peduncle,  by  which  the  ball  is  held  in  the  fall 
and  winter,  breaks  up  into  a  dozen  or  more  threads 
or  strands,  that  are  stronger  than  those  of  hemp. 
When  twisted  tightly  they  make  a  little  cord  that  I 
find  it  impossible  to  break  with  my  hands.  Had  they 
been  longer  the  Indian  would  surely  have  used  them 
to  make  his  bow-strings  and  all  the  other  strings  he 
required.  One  could  hang  himself  with  a  small  cord 


12  A  SHARP  LOOKOUT. 

of  them.  (In  South  America,  Humboldt  saw  excel- 
lent cordage  made  by  the  Indians  from  the  petioles 
of  the  Chiquichiqui  palm.)  Nature  has  determined 
that  these  buttons  should  stay  on.  In  order  that  the 
seeds  of  this  tree  may  germinate,  it  is  probably  nec- 
essary that  they  be  kept  dry  during  the  winter,  and 
reach  the  ground  after  the  season  of  warmth  and 
moisture  is  fully  established.  In  May,  just  as  the 
leaves  and  the  new  balls  are  emerging,  at  the  touch 
of  a  warm,  moist  south  wind,  these  spherical  packages 
suddenly  go  to  pieces  —  explode,  in  fact,  like  tiny 
bomb-shells  that  were  fused  to  carry  to  this  point  — 
and  scatter  their  seeds  to  the  four  winds.  They 
yield  at  the  same  time  a  fine  pollen-like  dust  that  one 
would  suspect  played  some  part  in  fertilizing  the  new 
balls,  did  not  botany  teach  him  otherwise.  At  any 
rate,  it  is  the  only  deciduous  tree  I  know  of  that  does 
not  let  go  the  old  seed  till  the  new  is  well  on  the  way. 
It  is  plain  why  the  sugar-berry-tree  or  lotus  holds  its 
drupes  all  winter :  it  is  in  order  that  the  birds  may 
come  and  sow  the  seed.  The  berries  are  like  small 
gravel  stones  with  a  sugar  coating,  and  a  bird  will 
not  eat  them  till  he  is  pretty  hard  pressed,  but  in  late 
fall  and  winter  the  robins,  cedar-birds,  and  bluebirds 
devour  them  readily,  and  of  course  lend  their  wings 
to  scatter  the  seed  far  and  wide.  The  same  is  true 
of  juniper-berries,  and  the  fruit  of  the  bitter-sweet. 

In  certain  other  cases  where  the  fruit  tends  to 
hang  on  during  the  winter,  as  with  the  bladder-nut 
and  the  honey  locust,  it  is  probably  because  the  frost 


A   SHARP   LOOKOUT.  13 

and  the  perpetual  moisture  of  the  ground  would  rot 
or  kill  the  germ.  To  beech-nuts,  chestnuts,  and  acorns 
the  moisture  of  the  ground  and  the  covering  of  leaves, 
seem  congenial,  though  too  much  warmth  and  moist- 
ure often  cause  the  acorns  to  germinate  prematurely. 
I  have  found  the  ground  under  the  oaks  in  Decem- 
ber covered  with  nuts,  all  anchored  to  the  earth  by 
purple  sprouts.  But  the  winter  which  follows  such 
untimely  growths  generally  proves  fatal  to  them. 

One  must  always  cross-question  Nature  if  he  would 
get  at  the  truth,  and  he  will  not  get  at  it  then  unless 
he  frames  his  questions  with  great  skill.  Most  per- 
sons are  unreliable  observers  because  they  put  only 
leading  questions,  or  vague  questions. 

Perhaps  there  is  nothing  in  the  operations  of 
Nature  to  which  we  can  properly  apply  the  term 
intelligence,  yet  there  are  many  things  that  at  first 
sight  look  like  it.  Place  a  tree  or  plant  in  an  unusual 
position  and  it  will  prove  itself  equal  to  the  occa- 
sion, and  behave  in  an  unusual  manner ;  it  will  show 
original  resources  ;  it  will  seem  to  try  intelligently  to 
master  the  difficulties.  Up  by  Furlow  Lake,  where  I 
was  camping  out,  a  young  hemlock  had  become  es- 
tablished upon  the  end  of  a  large  and  partly  decayed 
log  that  reached  many  feet  out  into  the  lake.  The 
young  tree  was  eight  or  nine  feet  high ;  it  had  sent 
its  roots  down  into  the  log  and  clasped  it  around  on 
the  outside,  and  had  apparently  discovered  that  there 
was  water  instead  of  soil  immediately  beneath  it,  and 
that  its  sustenance  must  be  sought  elsewhere  and  that 


14  A  SHARP  LOOKOUT. 

quickly.  Accordingly  it  had  started  one  large  root, 
by  far  the  largest  of  all,  for  the  shore  along  the  top 
of  the  log.  This  root,  when  I  saw  the  tree,  was  six 
or  seven  feet  long,  and  had  bridged  more  than  half 
the  distance  that  separated  the  tree  from  the  land. 

Was  this  a  kind  of  intelligence  ?  If  the  shore  had 
lain  in  the  other  direction,  no  doubt  at  all  but  the 
root  would  have  started  for  the  other  side.  I  know 
a  yellow  pine  that  stands  on  the  side  of  a  steep  hill. 
To  make  its  position  more  secure,  it  has  thrown  out  a 
large  root  at  right  angles  with  its  stem  directly  into 
the  bank  above  it,  which  acts  as  a  stay  or  guy-rope. 
It  was  positively  the  best  thing  tho  tree  could  do. 
The  earth  has  washed  away  so  that  the  root  where  it 
leaves  the  tree  is  two  feet  above  the  surface  of  the 
soil. 

Yet  both  these  cases  are  easily  explained,  and  with- 
out attributing  any  power  of  choice,  or  act  of  intelli- 
gent selection  to  the  trees.  In  the  case  of  the  little 
hemlock  upon  the  partly  submerged  log,  roots  were 
probably  thrown  out  equally  in  all  directions  ;  on  all 
sides  but  one  they  reached  the  water  and  stopped 
growing ;  the  water  checked  them ;  but  on  the  land 
side,  the  root  on  the  top  of  the  log,  not  meeting 
with  any  obstacle  of  the  kind,  kept  on  growing,  and 
thus  pushing  its  way  toward  the  shore.  It  was  a 
case  of  survival,  not  of  the  fittest,  but  of  that  which 
the  situation  favored  —  the  fittest  with  reference  to 
position. 

So  with  the  pine-tree  on  the  side  of  the  hill.     It 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT.  15 


probably  started  its  roots  in  all  directions,  but  only 
the  one  on  the  upper  side  survived  and  matured. 
Those  on  the  lower  side  finally  perished,  and  others 
lower  down  took  their  places.  Thus  the  whole  life 
upon  the  globe,  as  we  see  it,  is  the  result  of  this  blind 
groping  and  putting  forth  of  Nature  in  every  direc- 
tion, with  failure  of  some  of  her  ventures  and  thes 
success  of  others,  the  circumstances,  the  environ- 
ments, supplying  the  checks  and  supplying  the  stim- 
ulus, the  seed  falling  upon  the  barren  places  just  the 
same  as  upon  the  fertile.  No  discrimination  on  the 
part  of  Nature  that  we  can  express  in  the  terms  of 
our  own  consciousness,  but  ceaseless  experiments  in 
every  possible  direction.  The  only  thing  inexplica- 
ble is  the  inherent  impulse  to  experiment,  the  origi- 
nal push,  the  principle  of  Life. 

The  good  observer  of  nature  holds  his  eye  long  and 
firmly  to  the  point,  as  one  does  when  looking  at  a  puz- 
zle picture,  and  will  not  be  baffled.  The  cat  catches 
the  mouse,  not  merely  because  she  watches  for  him, 
but  because  she  is  armed,  to  catch  him  and  is  quick. 
So  the  observer  finally  gets  the  fact,  not  only  because 
he  has  patience,  but  because  his  eye  is  sharp  and  his 
inference  swift.  Many  a  shrewd  old  farmer  looks 
upon  the  milky-way  as  a  kind  of  weathercock,  and. 
will  tell  you  that  the  way  it  points  at  night  indicates 
the  direction  of  the  wind  the  following  day.  So  also 
every  new  moon  is  either  a  dry  moon  or  a  wet  moon, 
—  dry  if  a  powder-horn  would  hang  upon  the  lower 
limb,  wet  if  it  would  not ;  forgetting  the  fact  that,  as 


16  A  SHARP   LOOKOUT. 

a  rule,  when  it  is  dry  in  one  part  of  the  continent  it 
is  wet  in  some  other  part,  and  vice  versa.  When  he 
kills  his  hogs  in  the  fall,  if  the  pork  be  very  hard  and 
solid  he  predicts  a  severe  winter ;  if  soft  and  loose, 
the  opposite  ;  again  overlooking  the  fact  that  the  kind 
of  food  and  the  temperature  of  the  fall  make  the 
pork  hard  or  make  it  soft.  So  with  a  hundred  other 
signs,  all  the  result  of  hasty  and  incomplete  observa- 
tions. 

One  season,  the  last  day  of  December  was  very 
warm.  The  bees  were  out  of  the  hive,  and  there  was 
no  frost  in  the  air  or  in  the  ground.  I  was  walking 
in  the  woods,  when  as  I  paused  in  the  shade  of  a 
hemlock-tree  I  heard  a  sound  proceed  from  beneath 
the  wet  leaves  on  the  ground  but  a  few  feet  from  me 
that  suggested  a  frog.  Following  it  cautiously  up,  I  at 
last  determined  upon  the  exact  spot  from  whence  the 
sound  issued ;  lifting  up  the  thick  layer  of  leaves,  there 
sat  a  frog  —  the  wood  frog,  one  of  the  first  to  appear 
in  the  marshes  in  spring,  and  which  I  have  elsewhere 
called  the  "  clucking  frog  "  —  in  a  little  excavation  in 
the  surface  of  the  leaf  mould.  As  it  sat  there  the 
top  of  its  back  was  level  with  the  surface  of  the 
ground.  This,  then,  was  its  hibernaculum ;  here  it 
was  prepared  to  pass  the  winter,  with  only  a  coverlid 
of  wet  matted  leaves  between  it  and  zero  weather. 
Forthwith  I  set  up  as  a  prophet  of  warm  weather, 
and  among  other  things  predicted  a  failure  of  the  ice 
crop  on  the  river ;  which,  indeed,  others,  who  had 
not  heard  frogs  croak  on  the  31st  of  December,  had 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT.  17 

also  begun  to  predict.  Surely,  I  thought,  this  frog 
knows  what  it  is  about;  here  is  the  wisdom  of  na- 
ture; it  would  have  gone  deeper  into  the  ground 
than  that  if  a  severe  winter  was  approaching ;  so  I 
was  not  anxious  about  my  coal-bin,  nor  disturbed  by 
longings  for  Florida.  But  what  a  winter  followed, 
the  winter  of  1885,  when  the  Hudson  became  coated 
with  ice  nearly  two  feet  thick,  and  when  March  was 
as  cold  as  January.  I  thought  of  my  frog  under  the 
hemlock  and  wondered  how  it  was  faring.  So  one 
day  the  latter  part  of  March,  when  the  snow  was 
gone,  and  there  was  a  feeling  of  spring  in  the  air, 
I  turned  aside  in  my  walk  to  investigate  it.  The 
matted  leaves  were  still  frozen  hard,  but  I  succeeded 
in  lifting  them  up  and  exposing  the  frog.  There  it 
sat  as  fresh  and  unscathed  as  in  the  fall.  The  ground 
beneath  and  all  about  it  was  still  frozen  like  a  rock, 
but  apparently  it  had  some  means  of  its  own  of  re- 
sisting the  frost.  It  winked  and  bowed  its  head  when 
I  touched  it,  but  did  not  seem  inclined  to  leave  its 
retreat.  Some  days  later,  after  the  frost  was  nearly 
all  out  of  the  ground,  I  passed  that  way,  and  found 
my  frog  had  come  out  of  its  seclusion  and  was  rest- 
ing amid  the  dry  leaves.  There  was  not  much  jump 
in  it  yet,  but  its  color  was  growing  lighter.  A  few 
more  warm  days  and  its  fellows,  and  doubtless  itself 
too,  were  croaking  and  gamboling  in  the  marslies. 

This  incident  convinced  me  of  two  things ;  namely, 
that  frogs  know  no  more  about  the  coming  weather 
than  we  do,  and  that  they  do  not  retreat  as  deep  into 


18  A  SHARP  LOOKOUT. 

the  ground  to  pass  the  winter  as  has  been  supposed. 
I  used  to  think  the  muskrats  could  foretell  an  early 
and  a  severe  winter,  and  have  so  written.  But  I  am 
now  convinced  they  cannot ;  they  know  as  little  about 
it  as  I  do.  Sometimes  on  an  early  and  severe  frost 
they  seem  to  get  alarmed  and  go  to  building  their 
houses,  but  usually  they  seem  to  build  early  or  late, 
high  or  low,  just  as  the  whim  takes  them. 

In  most  of  the  operations  of  Nature  there  is  one  or 
more  unknown  quantity ;  to  find  the  exact  value  of 
this  unknown  factor  is  not  so  easy.  The  wool  of  the 
sheep,  the  fur  of  the  animals,  the  feathers  of  the 
fowls,  the  husks  of  the  maize,  why  are  they  thicker 
some  seasons  than  others ;  what  is  the  value  of  the 
unknown  quantity  here?  Does  it  indicate  a  severe 
winter  approaching?  Only  observations  extending 
over  a  series  of  years  could  determine  the  point. 
How  much  patient  observation  it  takes  to  settle  many 
of  the  facts  in  the  lives  of  the  birds,  animals,  and 
insects.  Gilbert  White  was  all  his  life  trying  to  de- 
termine whether  or  not  swallows  passed  the  winter  in 
a  torpid  state  in  the  mud  at  the  bottom  of  ponds  and 
marshes,  and  he  died  ignorant  of  the  truth  that  they 
do  not.  Do  honey-bees  injure  the  grape  and  other 
fruits  by  puncturing  the  skin  for  the  juice  ?  The 
most  patient  watching  by  many  skilled  eyes  all  over 
the  country  has  not  yet  settled  the  point.  For  my 
own  part,  I  am  convinced  that  they  do  not.  The 
honey-bee  is  not  the  rough-and-ready  freebooter  that 
the  wasp  and  bumble-bee  are ;  she  has  somewhat,  of 


A  SHARP   LOOKOUT.  19 

feminine  timidity,  and  leaves  the  first  rude  assaults 
to  them.  I  knew  the  honey-bee  was  very  fond  of 
the  locust  blossoms,  and  that  the  trees  hummed  like 
a  hive  in  the  height  of  their  flowering,  but  I  did 
not  know  that  the  bumble-bee  was  ever  the  sapper  and 
miner  that  went  ahead  in  this  enterprise,  till  one  day 
I  placed  myself  amid  the  foliage  of  a  locust  and  saw 
him  savagely  bite  through  the  shank  of  the  flower 
and  extract  the  nectar,  followed  by  a  honey-bee  that 
in  every  instance  searched  for  this  opening,  and 
probed  long  and  carefully  for  the  leavings  of  her 
burly  purveyor.  The  bumble-bee  rifles  the  dicentra 
and  the  columbine  of  their  treasures  in  the  same 
manner,  namely,  by  slitting  their  pockets  from  the 
outside,  and  the  honey-bee  gleans  after  him,  taking 
the  small  change  he  leaves.  In  the  case  of  the  locust, 
however,  she  usually  obtains  the  honey  without  the 
aid  of  the  larger  bee. 

Speaking  of  the  honey-bee  reminds  me  that  the 
subtle  and  sleight-of-hand  manner  in  which  she  fills 
her  baskets  with  pollen  and  propolis  is  characteristic 
of  much  of  Nature's  doings.  See  the  bee  going  from 
flower  to  flower  with  the  golden  pellets  on  her  thighs, 
slowly  and  mysteriously  increasing  in  size.  If  the 
miller  were  to  take  the  toll  of  the  grist  he  grinds  by 
gathering  the  particles  of  flour  from  his  coat  and  hatj 
as  he  moved  rapidly  about,  or  catching  them  in  his 
pockets,  he  would  be  doing  pretty  nearly  what  the 
bee  does.  The  little  miller  dusts  herself  with  the  pol- 
len of  the  flower,  and  then,  while  on  the  wing,  brushes 


20  A  SHARP  LOOKOUT. 

it  off  with  the  fine  brush  on  certain  of  her  feet,  and 
by  some  jugglery  or  other  catches  it  in  her  pollen  bas- 
ket. One  needs  to  look  long  and  intently  to  see 
through  the  trick.  Pliny  says  they  fill  their  baskets 
with  their  fore  feet,  and  that  they  fill  their  fore  feet 
with  their  trunks,  but  it  is  a  much  more  subtle  op- 
eration than  this.  I  have  seen  the  bees  come  to  a 
meal  barrel  in  early  spring,  and  to  a  pile  of  hard- 
wood sawdust  before  there  was  yet  anything  in  nature 
for  them  to  work  upon,  and  having  dusted  their  coats 
with  the  finer  particles  of  the  meal  or  the  sawdust, 
hover  on  the  wing  above  the  mass  till  the  little  leger- 
demain feat  is  performed.  Nature  fills  her  baskets 
by  the  same  sleight-of-hand,  and  the  observer  must 
be  on  the  alert  who  would  possess  her  secret.  If  the 
ancients  had  looked  a  little  closer  and  sharper,  would 
they  ever  have  believed  in  spontaneous  generation  in 
the  superficial  way  in  which  they  did  ;  that  maggots, 
for  instance,  were  generated  spontaneously  in  putrid 
flesh  ?  Could  they  not  see  the  spawn  of  the  blow- 
flies ?  Or  if  Virgil  had  been  a  real  observer  of  the 
bees,  would  he  ever  have  credited,  as  he  certainly  ap- 
pears to  do,  the  fable  of  bees  originating  from  the 
carcass  of  a  steer  ?  Or  that  on  windy  days  they  car- 
ried little  stones  for  ballast,  or  that  two  hostile  swarms 
fought  each  other  in  the  air  ?  Indeed,  the  ignorance, 
or  the  false  science,  of  the  ancient  observers  with  re- 
gard to  the  whole  subject  of  bees,  is  most  remarkable ; 
not  false  science  merely  with  regard  to  their  more 
hidden  operations,  but  with  regard  to  that  which  is 


A  SHARP   LOOKOUT. 


21 


open  and  patent  to  all  who  have  eyes  in  their  heads, 
and  have  ever  had  to  do  with  them.  And  Pliny 
names  authors  who  had  devoted  their  whole  lives  to 
the  study  of  the  subject. 

But  the  ancients,  like  women  and  children,  were 
not  accurate  observers.  Just  at  the  critical  moment 
their  eyes  were  unsteady,  or  their  fancy,  or  their 
credulity,  or  their  impatience  got  the  better  of  them, 
so  that  their  science  was  half  fact  and  half  fable. 
Thus,  for  instance,  because  the  young  cuckoo  at  times 
appeared  to  take  the  head  of  its  small  foster  mother 
quite  into  its  mouth  while  receiving  its  food,  they  be- 
lieved that  it  finally  devoured  her.  Pliny,  who  em- 
bodied the  science  of  his  times  in  his  natural  history, 
says  of  the  wasp  that  it  carries  spiders  to  its  nest  and 
then  sits  upon  them  until  it  hatches  its  young  from 
them.  A  little  careful  observation  would  have  shown 
him  that  this  was  only  a  half-truth ;  that  the  whole 
truth  was  that  the  spiders  were  entombed  with  the 
egg  of  the  wasp  to  serve  as  food  for  the  young  when 
the  egg  shall  have  hatched. 

What  curious  questions  Plutarch  discusses,  as,  for 
instance,  "  What  is  the  reason  that  a  bucket  of  water 
drawn  out  of  a  well,  if  it  stands  all  night  in  the  air 
that  is  in  the  well,  is  more  cold  in  the  morning  than 
the  rest  of  the  water  ?  "  He  could  probably  have 
given  many  reasons  why  "a  watched  pot  never 
boils."  The  ancients,  the  same  author  says,  held  that 
the  bodies  of  those  killed  by  lightning  never  putrefy ; 
that  the  sight  of  a  ram  quiets  an  enraged  elephant ; 


22  A  SHARP  LOOKOUT. 

that  a  viper  will  lie  stock  still  if  touched  by  a 
beechen  leaf ;  that  a  wild  bull  grows  tame  if  bound 
with  the  twigs  of  a  fig-tree ;  that  a  hen  purifies  her- 
self with  straw  after  she  has  laid  an  egg ;  that  the 
deer  buries  his  cast-off  horns ;  that  a  goat  stops  the 
whole  herd  by  holding  a  branch  of  the  sea-holly  in 
his  mouth,  etc.  They  sought  to  account  for  such 
things  without  stopping  to  ask,  Are  they  true  ?  Na- 
ture was  too  novel,  or  else  too  fearful  to  them  to 
be  deliberately  pursued  and  hunted  down.  Their 
youthful  joy  in  her,  or  their  dread  and  awe  in  her 
presence,  may  be  better  than  our  scientific  satisfac- 
tion, or  cool  wonder,  or  our  vague,  mysterious  sense 
of  "  something  far  more  deeply  interfused/'  yet  we 
cannot  change  with  them  if  we  would,  and  I,  for  one, 
would  not  if  I  could.  Science  does  not  mar  nature. 
The  railroad,  Thoreau  -found,  after  all,  to  be  about 
the  wildest  road  he  knew  of,  and  the  telegraph  wires 
the  best  seolian  harp  out  of  doors.  Study  of  nature 
deepens  the  mystery  and  the  charm  because  it  re- 
moves the  horizon  farther  off.  We  cease  to  fear, 
perhaps,  but  how  can  one  cease  to  marvel  and  to 
love  ? 

The  fields  and  woods  and  waters  about  one  are  a ; 
book  from  which  he  may  draw  exhaustless  entertain-' 
ment,  if  he  would.  One  must  not  only  learn  the  writ- 
ing, he  must  translate  the  language,  the  signs,  and 
the  hieroglyphics.  It  is  a  very  quaint  and  elliptical 
writing,  and  much  must  be  supplied  by  the  wit  of  the 
translator.  At  any  rate,  the  lesson  is  to  be  well 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT.  23 

conned.  Gilbert  White  said  that  that  locality  would 
be  found  the  richest  in  zoological  or  botanical  speci- 
mens, which  was  most  thoroughly  examined.  For 
more  than  forty  years  he  studied  the  ornithology  of 
his  district  without  exhausting  the  subject.  I  thought 
I  knew  my  own  tramping  ground  pretty  well,  but  one 
April  day,  when  I  looked  a  little  closer  than  usual 
into  a  small  semi-stagnant  lakelet,  where  I  had  peered 
a  hundred  times  before,  I  suddenly  discovered  scores 
of  little  creatures  that  were  as  new  to  me  as  so  many 
nymphs  would  have  been.  They  were  partly  fish- 
shaped,  from  an  inch  to  an  inch  and  a  half  long,  semi- 
transparent,  with  a  dark  brownish  line  visible  the  en- 
tire length  of  them  (apparently  the  thread  upon  which 
the  life  of  the  animal  hung,  and  by  which  its  all  but 
impalpable  frame  was  held  together),  and  suspend- 
ing themselves  in  the  water,  or  impelling  themselves 
swiftly  forward  by  means  of  a  double  row  of  fine, 
waving,  hair-like  appendages,  that  arose  from  what 
appeared  to  be  the  back,  —  a  kind  of  undulating,  pap- 
pus-like wings.  What  was  it?  I  did  not  know.  None 
of  my  friends  or  scientific  acquaintances  knew.  I 
wrote  to  a  learned  man,  an  authority  upon  fish,  de- 
scribing the  creature  as  well  as  I  could.  He  replied 
that  it  was  only  a  familiar  species  of  phyllopodous 
crustacean,  known  as  eubranchipus  vernalis. 

I  remember  that  our  guide  in  the  Maine  woods, 
seeing  I  had  names  of  my  own  for  some  of  the  plants, 
would  often  ask  me  the  name  of  this  and  that  flower 
f  orv  which  he  had  no  word ;  and  that  when  I  could 


24  A  SHARP  LOOKOUT. 

recall  the  full  Latin  term,  it  seemed  overwhelmingly 
convincing  and  satisfying  to  him.  It  was  evidently  a 
relief  to  know  that  these  obscure  plants  of  his  native 
heath  had  been  found  worthy  of  a  learned  name,  and 
that  the  Maine  woods  were  not  so  uncivil  and  out- 
landish as  they  might  at  first  seem  :  it  was  a  comfort 
to  him  to  know  that  he  did  not  live  beyond  the  reach 
of  botany.  In  like  manner  I  found  satisfaction  in 
knowing  that  my  novel  fish  had  been  recognized  and 
worthily  named ;  the  title  conferred  a  new  dignity  at 
once  ;  but  when  the  learned  man  added  that  it  was 
familiarly  called  the  "  fairy  shrimp,"  I  felt  a  deeper 
pleasure.  Fairy-like  it  certainly  was,  in  its  aerial, 
unsubstantial  look,  and  in  its  delicate,  down-like  means 
of  locomotion  ;  but  the  large  head,  with  its  curious 
folds,  and  its  eyes  standing  out  in  relief,  as  if  on  the 
heads  of  two  pins,  were  gnome-like.  Probably  the 
fairy  wore  a  mask,  and  wanted  to  appear  terrible  to 
human  eyes.  Then  the  creatures  had  sprung  out  of 
the  earth  as  by  magic.  I  found  some  in  a  furrow  in 
a  ploughed  field  that  had  encroached  upon  a  swamp. 
In  the  fall  the  plough  had  been  there,  and  had  turned 
up  only  the  moist  earth ;  now  a  little  water  was  stand- 
ing there,  from  which  the  April  sunbeams  had  in- 
voked these  airy,  fairy  creatures.  They  belong  to 
the  crustaceans,  but  apparently  no  creature  has  so 
thin  or  impalpable  a  crust ;  you  can  almost  see  through 
them  ;  certainly  you  can  see  what  they  have  had  for 
dinner,  if  they  have  eaten  substantial  food. 

All  we  know  about  the  private  and  essential  nat- 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT.  25 

nral  history  of  the  bees,  the  birds,  the  fishes,  the  ani- 
mals, the  plants,  is  the  result  of  close,  patient,  quick- 
witted observation.  Yet  Nature  will  often  elude  one 
for  all  his  pains  and  alertness.  Thoreau,  as  revealed 
in  his  journal,  was  for  years  trying  to  settle  in  his 
own  mind  what  was  the  first  thing  that  stirred  in 
spring,  after  the  severe  New  England  winter,  —  in 
what  was  the  first  sign  or  pulse  of  returning  life  man- 
ifest; and  he  never  seems  to  have  been  quite  sure. 
He  could  not  get  his  salt  on  the  tail  of  this  bird.  He 
dug  into  the  swamps,  he  peered  into  the  water,  he 
felt  with  benumbed  hands  for  the  radical  leaves  of 
the  plants  under  the  snow  ;  he  inspected  the  buds  on 
the  willows,  the  catkins  on  the  alders ;  he  went  out 
before  daylight  of  a  March  morning  and  remained 
out  after  dark  ;  he  watched  the  lichens  and  mosses  on 
the  rocks ;  he  listened  for  the  birds ;  he  was  on  the 
alert  for  the  first  frog  ("  Can  you  be  absolutely  sure," 
he  says,  "that  you  have  heard  the  first  frog  that 
croaked  in  the  township  ?  ")  he  stuck  a  pin  here  and 
he  stuck  a  pin  there,  and  there,  and  still  he  could  not 
satisfy  himself.  Nor  can  any  one.  Life  appears  to 
start  in  several  things  simultaneously.  Of  a  warm 
thawy  day  in  February,  the  snow  is  suddenly  covered 
with  myriads  of  snow  fleas  looking  like  black,  new 
powder  just  spilled  there.  Or  you  may  see  a  winged 
insect  in  the  air.  On  the  self-same  day  the  grass  in 
the  spring  run  and  the  catkins  on  the  alders  will  have 
started  a  little,  and  if  you  look  sharply  while  passing 
along  some  sheltered  nook  or  grassy  slope  where  the 


26  A   SHARP  LOOKOUT. 

sunshine  lies  warm  on  the  bare  ground,  you  will  prob- 
ably see  a  grasshopper  or  two.  The  grass  hatches 
out  under  the  snow,  and  why  should  not  the  grass- 
hopper ?  At  any  rate,  a  few  such  hardy  specimens 
may  be  found  in  the  latter  part  of  our  milder  winters 
wherever  the  sun  has  uncovered  a  sheltered  bit  of 
grass  for  a  few  days,  even  after  a  night  of  ten  or 
twelve  degrees  of  frost.  Take  them  in  the  shade,  and 
let  them  freeze  stiff  as  pokers,  and  when  thawed  out 
again  they  will  hop  briskly.  And  yet  if  a  poet  were 
to  put  grasshoppers  in  his  winter  poem,  we  should  re- 
quire pretty  full  specifications  of  him,  or  else  fur  to 
clothe  them  with.  Nature  will  not  be  cornered,  yet 
she  does  many  things  in  a  corner  and  surreptitiously. 
She  is  all  things  to  all  men ;  she  has  whole  truths, 
half  truths,  and  quarter  truths,  if  not  still  smaller 
fractions.  The  careful  observer  finds  this  out  sooner 
or  later.  Old  fox-hunters  will  tell  you,  on  the  evi- 
dence of  their  own  eyes,  that  there  is  a  black  fox  and 
a  silver  gray  fox,  two  species ;  but  there  are  not ;  the 
black  fox  is  black  when  coining  toward  you,  or  run- 
ning from  you,  and  silver  gray  at  point  blank  view, 
when  the  eye  penetrates  the  fur ;  each  separate  hair 
is  gray  the  first  half  and  black  the  last.  This  is  a 
sample  of  nature's  half  truths. 

Which  are  our  sweet-scented  wild  flowers  ?  Put 
your  nose  to  every  flower  you  pluck,  and  you  will  be 
surprised  how  your  list  will  swell  the  more  you  smell. 
I  plucked  some  wild  blue  violets  one  day,  the  ovata 
variety  of  the  sagittata,  that  had  a  faint  perfume  of 


-A  SHARP  LOOKOUT.  27 

sweet  clover,  but  I  never  could  find  another  that  had 
any  odor.  A  pupil  disputed  with  his  teacher  about 
the  hepatica,  claiming  in  opposition  that  it  was  sweet- 
scented.  Some  hepaticas  are  sweet-scented  and  some 
are  not,  and  the  perfume  is  stronger  some  seasons 
than  others.  After  the  unusually  severe  winter  of 
1880-81,  the  variety  of  hepatica  called  the  sharp- 
lobed  was  markedly  sweet  in  nearly  every  one  of  the 
hundreds  of  specimens  I  examined.  A  handful  of 
them  exhaled  a  most  delicious  perfume.  The  white 
ones  that  season  were  largely  in  the  ascendant,  and 
probably  the  white  specimens  of  both  varieties,  one 
season  with  another,  will  oftenest  prove  sweet-scented. 
Darwin  says  a  considerably  larger  proportion  of  white 
flowers  are  sweet-scented  than  of  any  other  color. 
The  only  sweet  violets  I  can  depend  upon  are  white, 
viola  blanda  and  viola  Canadensis,  and  white  largely 
predominates  among  our  other  odorous  wild  flowers. 
All  the  fruit-trees  have  white  or  pinkish  blossoms.  I 
recall  no  native  blue  flower  of  New  York  or  New 
England  that  is  fragrant  except  in  the  rare  case  of  the 
arrow-leaved  violet,  above  referred  to.  The  earliest 
yellow  flowers,  like  the  dandelion  and  yellow  violets, 
are  not  fragralit.  Later  in  the  season  yellow  is  fre- 
quently accompanied  with  fragrance,  as  in  the  even- 
ing primrose,  the  yellow  lady's  slipper,  hprned  blad- 
derwort,  and  others. 

My  readers  probably  remember  that  on  a  former 
occasion  I  have  mildly  taken  the  poet  Bryant  to  task 
for  leading  his  readers  to  infer  that  the  early  yellow 


28  A  SHARP  LOOKOUT. 

violet  was  sweet-scented.  In  view  of  the  capricious- 
ness  of  the  perfume  of  certain  of  our  wild  flowers,  I 
have  during  the  past  few  years  tried  industriously  to 
convict  myself  of  error  in  respect  to  this  flower.  The 
round-leaved  yellow  violet  was  one  of  the  earliest  and 
most  abundant  wild  flowers  in  the  woods  where  my 
youth  was  passed,  and  whither  I  still  make  annual 
pilgrimages.  I  have  pursued  it  on  mountains  and  in 
lowlands,  in  "  beechen  woods  "  and  amid  the  hem- 
locks ;  and  while,  with  respect  to  its  earliness,  it 
overtakes  the  hepatica  in  the  latter  part  of  April, 
as  do  also  the  dog's-tooth  violet  and  the  claytonia, 
yet  the  first  hepaticas,  where  the  two  plants  grow 
side  by  side,  bloom  about  a  week  before  the  first  vio- 
let. And  I  have  yet  to  find  one  that  has  an  odor 
that  could  be  called  a  perfume.  A  handful  of  them, 
indeed,  has  a  faint,  bitterish  smell,  not  unlike  that  of 
the  dandelion  in  quality  ;  but  if  every  flower  that  has 
a  smell  is  sweet-scented,  then  every  bird  that  makes  a 
noise  is  a  songster. 

On  the  occasion  above  referred  to,  I  also  dissented 
from  Lowell's  statement,  in  "  Al  Fresco,"  that  in 
early  summer  the  dandelion  blooms,  in  general,  with 
the  buttercup  and  the  clover.  I  am  aware  that  such 
criticism  of  the  poets  is  small  game,  and  not  worth 
the  powder.  General  truth,  and  not  specific  fact,  is 
what  we  are  to  expect  of  the  poets.  Bryant's  "  Yel- 
low Violet  "  poem  is  tender  and  appropriate,  and  such 
as  only  a  real  lover  and  observer  of  nature  could  feel 
or  express,  and  Lowell's  "  Al  Fresco  "  is  full  of  the 


A   SHARP  LOOKOUT.  29 

luxurious  feeling  of  early  summer,  and  this  is,  of 
course,  the  main  thing ;  a  good  reader  cares  for  little 
else ;  I  care  for  little  else  myself.  But  when  you 
take  your  coin  to  the  assay  office  it  must  be  weighed 
and  tested,  and  in  the  comments  referred  to  I  (un- 
wisely perhaps)  sought  to  smelt  this  gold  of  the  poets 
in  the  naturalist's  pot,  to  see  what  alloy  of  error  I 
could  detect  in  it.  Were  the  poems  true  to  their  last 
word  ?  They  were  not,  and  much  subsequent  inves- 
tigation has  only  confirmed  my  first  analysis.  The 
general  truth  is  on  my  side,  and  the  specific  fact,  if 
such  exists  in  this  case,  on  the  side  of  the  poets.  It 
is  possible  that  there  may  be  a  fragrant  yellow  violet, 
as  an  exceptional  occurrence,  like  that  of  the  sweet- 
scented,  arrow-leaved  species  above  referred  to,  and 
that  in  some  locality  it  may  have  bloomed  before  the 
hepatica ;  also  that  Lowell  may  have  seen  a  belated 
dandelion  or  two  in  June,  amid  the  clover  and  the 
buttercups ;  but,  if  so,  they  were  the  exception,  and 
not  the  rule  —  the  specific  or  accidental  fact,  and  not 
the  general  truth. 

Dogmatism  about  nature,  or  about  anything  else, 
very  often  turns  out  to  be  an  ungrateful  cur  that  bites 
the  hand  that  reared  it.  I  speak  from  experience. 
I  was  once  quite  certain  that  the  honey-bee  did  not 
work  upon  the  blossoms  of  the  trailing  arbutus,  but 
while  walking  in  the  woods  one  April  day  I  came 
upon  a  spot  of  arbutus  swarming  with  honey-bees. 
They  were  so  eager  for  it  that  they  crawled  under 
the  leaves  and  the  moss  to  get  at  the  blossoms,  and 


30  A  SHARP  LOOKOUT. 

refused  on  the  instant  the  hive-honey  which  I  hap- 
pened to  have  with  me,  and  which  I  offered  them. 
I  had  had  this  flower  under  observation  more  than 
twenty  years,  and  had  never  before  seen  it  visited  by 
honey-bees.  The  same  season  I  saw  them  for  the  first 
time  working  upon  the  flower  of  blood-root  and  of  ad- 
der's-tongue.  Hence  I  would  not  undertake  to  say 
again  what  flowers  bees  do  not  work  upon.  Virgil 
implies  that  they  work  upon  the  violet,  and  for  aught 
I  know  they  may.  I  have  seen  them  very  busy  on 
the  blossoms  of  the  white  oak,  though  this  is  not  con- 
sidered a  honey  or  pollen-yielding  tree.  From  the 
smooth  sumac  they  reap  a  harvest  in  mid-summer, 
and  in  March  they  get  a  good  grist  of  pollen  from 
the  skunk-cabbage. 

I  presume,  however,  it  would  be  safe  to  say  that 
there  is  a  species  of  smilax  with  an  unsavory  name 
that  the  bee  does  not  visit,  herbacea.  The  produc- 
tion of  this  plant  is  a  curious  freak  of  nature.  I  find 
it  growing  along  the  fences  where  one  would  look  for 
wild  roses,  or  the  sweet-brier ;  its  recurving  or  climb- 
ing stem,  its  glossy,  deep-green,  heart-shaped  leaves, 
its  clustering  umbels  of  small  greenish-yellow  flowers, 
making  it  very  pleasing  to  the  eye ;  but  to  examine  it 
closely  one  must  positively  hold  his  nose.  It  would 
be  too  cruel  a  joke  to  offer  it  to  any  person  not  ac- 
quainted with  it  to  smell.  It  is  like  the  vent  of  a 
charnel-house.  It  is  first  cousin  to  the  trilliums, 
among  the  prettiest  of  our  native  wild  flowers,  and 
the  same  bad  blood  crops  out  in  the  purple  trillium  or 
birthroot. 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT.  31 

Nature  will  include  the  disagreeable  and  repulsive 
also.  I  have  seen  the  phallic  fungus  growing  in  June 
Under  a  rose-bush.  There  was  the  rose,  and  beneath 
it,  springing  from  the  same  mould,  was  this  diabolical 
offering  to  Priapus.  With  the  perfume  of  the  roses 
into  the  open  window  came  the  stench  of  this  hideous 
parody,  as  if  in  mockery.  I  removed  it,  and  another 
appeared  in  the  same  place  shortly  afterward.  The 
earthman  was  rampant  and  insulting.  Pan  is  not 
dead  yet.  At  least  he  still  makes  a  ghastly  sign  here 
and  there  in  nature. 

The  good  observer  of  nature  exists  in  fragments,  a 
trait  here  and  a  trait  there.  Each  person  sees  what 
it  concerns  him  to  see.  The  fox-hunter  knows  pretty 
well  the  ways  and  habits  of  the  fox,  but  on  any  other 
subject  he  is  apt  to  mislead  you.  He  comes  to  see 
only  fox  traits  in  whatever  he  looks  upon.  The  bee- 
hunter  will  follow  the  bee,  but  lose  the  bird.  The 
farmer  notes  what  affects  his  crops  and  his  earnings, 
and  little  else.  Common  people,  St.  Pierre  says,  ob- 
serve without  reasoning,  and  the  learned  reason  with- 
out observing.  If  one  could  apply  to  the  observation 
of  nature  the  sense  and  skill  of  the  South  American 
rastreador,  or  trailer,  how  much  he  would  track  home. 
This  man's  eye,  according  to  the  accounts  of  travel- 
ers, is  keener  than  a  hound's  scent.  A  fugitive  can 
no  more  elude  him  than  he  can  elude  fate.  His  per- 
ceptions are  said  to  be  so  keen  that  the  displacement 
of  a  leaf  or  pebble,  or  the  bending  down  of  a  spear 
of  grass,  or  the  removal  of  a  little  dust  from  the 


82  A  SHARP  LOOKOUT. 

fence  are  enough  to  give  him  the  clew.  He  sees 
the  half-obliterated  foot-prints  of  a  thief  in  the  sand, 
and  carries  the  impression  in  his  eye  till  a  year  after- 
ward, when  he  again  detects  the  same  foot-print  in  the 
suburbs  of  a  city,  and  the  culprit  is  tracked  home  and 
caught.  I  knew  a  man  blind  from  his  youth  who  not 
only  went  about  his  own  neighborhood  without  a  guide, 
turning  up  to  his  neighbor's  gate  or  door  as  unerringly 
as  if  he  had  the  best  of  eyes,  but  who  would  go  many 
miles  on  an  errand  to  a  new  part  of  the  country.  He 
seemed  to  carry  a  map  of  the  township  in  the  bottom 
of  his  feet,  a  most  minute  and  accurate  survey.  He 
never  took  the  wrong  road,  and  he  knew  the  right 
house  when  he  had  reached  it.  He  was  a  miller  and 
fuller,  and  ran  his  mill  at  night  while  his  sons  ran  it 
by  day.  He  never  made  a  mistake  with  his  custom- 
ers' bags  or  wool,  knowing  each  man's  by  the  sense  of 
touch.  He  frightened  a  colored  man  whom  he  de- 
tected stealing,  as  if  he  had  seen  out  of  the  back  of  his 
head.  Such  facts  show  one  how  delicate  and  sensitive 
a  man's  relation  to  outward  nature  through  his  bodily 
senses  may  become.  Heighten  it  a  little  more,  and 
he  could  forecast  the  weather  and  the  seasons,  and  de- 
tect hidden  springs  and  minerals.  A  good  observer 
has  something  of  this  delicacy  and  quickness  of  per- 
ception. All  the  great  poets  and  naturalists  have  it. 
Agassiz  traces  the  glaciers  like  a  rastreador,  and  Dar- 
win misses  no  step  that  the  slow  but  tireless  gods  of 
physical  change  have  taken,  no  matter  how  they  cross 
or  retrace  their  course.  In  the  obscure  fish-worm  he 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT.  33 

sees  an  agent  that  has  kneaded  and  leavened  the  soil 
like  giant  hands. 

One  secret  of  success  in  observing  nature  is  capa- 
city to  take  a  hint ;  a  hair  may  show  where  a  lion  is 
hid.  One  must  put  this  and  that  together,  and  value 
bits  and  shreds.  Much  alloy  exists  with  the  truth. 
The  gold  of  nature  does  not  look  like  gold  at  the  first 
glance.  It  must  be  smelted  and  refined  in  the  mind 
of  the  observer.  And  one  must  crush  mountains  of 
quartz  and  wash  hills  of  sand  to  get  it.  To  know  the 
indications  is  the  main  matter.  People  who  do  not 
know  the  secret  are  eager  to  take  a  walk  with  the  ob- 
server to  find  where  the  mine  is  that  contains  such 
nuggets,  little  knowing  that  his  ore-bed  is  but  a  gravel- 
heap  to  them.  How  insignificant  appear  most  of  the 
facts  which  one  sees  in  his  walks,  in  the  life  of  the 
birds,  the  flowers,  the  animals,  or  in  the  phases  of 
the  landscape,  or  the  look  of  the  sky !  —  insignificant 
until  they  are  put  through  some  mental  or  emotional 
process  and  their  true  value  appears.  The  diamond 
looks  like  a  pebble  until  it  is  cut.  One  goes  to  Nature 
only  for  hints  and  half-truths.  Her  facts  are  crude 
until  you  have  absorbed  them  or  translated  them. 
Then  the  ideal  steals  in  and  lends  a  charm  in  spite 
of  one.  It  is  not  so  much  what  we  see  as  what  the 
thing  seen  suggests.  We  all  see  about  the  same  ;  to 
one  it  means  much,  to  another  little.  A  fact  that  has 
passed  through  the  mind  of  man,  like  lime  or  iron 
that  has  passed  through  his  blood,  has  some  quality 
or  property  superadded  or  brought  out  that  it  did  not 


34  A  SHARP  LOOKOUT. 

possess  before.  You  may  go  to  the  fields  and  the 
woods,  and  gather  fruit  that  is  ripe  for  the  palate 
without  any  aid  of  yours,  but  you  cannot  do  this  in 
science  or  in  art.  Here  truth  must  be  disentangled 
and  interpreted  ;  must  be  made  in  the  image  of  man. 
Hence  all  good  observation  is  more  or  less  a  refining 
and  transmuting  process,  and  the  secret  is  to  know  the 
crude  material  when  you  see  it.  I  think  of  Words- 
worth's lines :  — 

"  The  mighty  world 
Of  eye  and  ear,  both  what  they  half  create,  and  what  perceive  ; " 

which  is  as  true  in  the  case  of  the  naturalist  as  of  the 
poet;  both  "half  create"  the  world  they  describe. 
Darwin  does  something  to  his  facts  as  well  as  Tenny- 
son to  his.  Before  a  fact  can  become  poetry,  it  must 
pass  through  the  heart  or  the  imagination  of  the  poet  ; 
before  it  can  become  science,  it  must  pass  through  the 
understanding  of  the  scientist.  Or  one  may  say,  it  is 
with  the  thoughts  and  half-thoughts  that  the  walker 
gathers  in  the  woods  and  fields,  as  with  the  common 
weeds  and  coarser  wild  flowers  which  he  plucks  for  a 
bouquet,  —  wild  carrot,  purple  aster,  moth  mullein, 
sedge  grass,  etc. :  they  look  common  and  uninterest- 
ing enough  there  in  the  fields,  but  the  moment  he  sep- 
arates them  from  the  tangled  mass,  and  brings  them 
indoors,  and  places  them  in  a  vase,  say  of  some  choice 
glass,  amid  artificial  things,  —  behold,  how  beautiful ! 
They  have  an  added  charm  and  significance  at  once  ; 
they  are  defined  and  identified,  and  what  was  com- 
mon and  familiar  becomes  unexpectedly  attractive. 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT.  35 

The  writer's  style,  the  quality  of  mind  he  brings,  is 
the  vase  in  which  his  commonplace  impressions  and 
incidents  are  made  to  appear  so  beautiful  and  signif- 
icant. 

Man  can  have  but  one  interest  in  nature,  namely, 
to  see  himself  reflected  or  interpreted  there,  and  we 
quickly  neglect  both  poet  and  philosopher  who  fail 
to  satisfy,  in  some  measure,  this  feeling. 


A  SPKAY  OF  PINE. 


OF   PINE. 

How  different  the  expression  of  the  pine,  in  fact 
of  all  the  coniferae,  from  that  of  the  deciduous  trees. 
Not  different  merely  by  reason  of  color  and  foliage, 
but  by  reason  of  form.  The  deciduous  trees  have 
greater  diversity  of  shapes  ;  they  tend  to  branch  end- 
lessly ;  they  divide  and  subdivide  until  the  original 
trunk  is  lost  in  a  maze  of  limbs.  Not  so  the  pine 
and  its  congeners.  Here  the  main  thing  is  the  cen- 
tral shaft ;  there  is  one  dominant  shoot  which  leads 
all  the  rest  and  which  points  the  tree  upward  ;  the 
original  type  is  never  departed  from  ;  the  branches 
shoot  out  at  nearly  right  angles  to  the  trunk  and 
occur  in  regular  whorls ;  the  main  stem  is  never 
divided  unless  some  accident  nips  the  leading  shoot, 
when  two  secondary  branches  will  often  rise  up  and 
lead  the  tree  forward.  The  pine  has  no  power  to 
develop  new  buds,  new  shoots,  like  the  deciduous 
trees ;  no  power  of  spontaneous  variation  to  meet 
new  exigencies,  new  requirements.  It  is,  as  it  were, 
cast  in  a  mould.  Its  buds,  its  branches  occur  in  reg- 
ular series  and  after  a  regular  pattern.  Interrupt 
this  series,  try  to  vary  this  pattern,  and  the  tree  is 
powerless  to  adapt  itself  to  any  other.  Victor  Hugo, 
in  his  old  age,  compared  himself  to  a  tree  that  had 


40  A  SPRAY  OF  PINE. 

been  many  times  cut  down,  but  which  always  sprouted 
again.  But  the  pines  do  not  sprout  again.  The 
spontaneous  development  of  a  new  bud  or  a  new 
shoot  rarely  or  never  occurs.  The  hemlock  seems  to 
be  under  the  same  law.  I  have  cut  away  all  the 
branches,  and  rubbed^way  all  the  buds  of  a  young 
sapling  of  this  species,  and  found  the  tree,  a  year  and 
a  half  later,  full  of  life,  but  with  no  leaf  or  bud  upon 
it.  It  could  not  break  the  spell.  One  bud  would 
have  released  it  and  set  its  currents  going  again,  but 
it  was  powerless  to  develop  it.  Remove  the  bud,  or 
the  new  growth  from  the  end  of  the  central  shaft  of 
the  branch  of  a  pine,  and  in  a  year  or  two  the  branch 
will  die  back  to  the  next  joint ;  remove  the  whorl  of 
branches  here  and  it  will  die  back  to  the  next  whorl, 
and  so  on. 

When  you  cut  the  top  of  a  pine  or  a  spruce,  re- 
moving the  central  and  leading  shaft,  the  tree  does 
not  develop  and  send  forth  a  new  one  to  take  the 
place  of  the  old,  but  a  branch  from  the  next  in  rank, 
that  is,  from  the  next  whorl  of  limbs,  is  promoted  to 
take  the  lead.  It  is  curious  to  witness  this  limb  rise 
up  and  get  into  position.  One  season  I  cut  off  the 
tops  of  some  young  hemlocks,  that  were  about  ten 
feet  high,  that  I  had  balled  in  the  winter  and  had 
moved  into  position  for  a  hedge.  The  next  series  of 
branches  consisted  of  three  that  shot  out  nearly  hori- 
zontally. As  time  passed  one  of  these  branches, 
apparently  the  most  vigorous,  began  to  lift  itself  up 
very  slowly  toward  the  place  occupied  by  the  lost 


A  SPRAY  OF  PINE.  41 

leader.  The  third  year  it  stood  at  an  angle  of  about 
forty-five  degrees ;  the  fourth  year  it  had  gained 
about  half  the  remaining  distance,  when  the  clipping 
shears  again  cut  it  down.  In  five  years  it  would 
probably  have  assumed  an  upright  position.  A  white 
pine  of  about  the  same  height  lost  its  central  shaft  by 
a  grub  that  developed  from  the  egg  of  an  insect,  and 
I  cut  it  away.  It  rose  from  a  whorl  of  four  branches, 
and  it  now  devolved  upon  one  of  these  to  take  the 
lead.  Two  of  them,  on  opposite  sides,  were  more 
vigorous  than  the  other  two,  and  the  struggle  now  is 
as  to  which  of  these  two  shall  gain  the  mastery.  Both 
are  rising  up  and  turning  toward  the  vacant  chief- 
tainship, and,  unless  something  interferes,  the  tree 
will  probably  become  forked  and  led  upward  by  two 
equal  branches.  I  shall  probably  humble  the  pride 
of  one  of  the  rivals  by  nipping  its  central  shoot.  One 
of  my  neighbors  has  cut  off  a  yellow  pine  about  six 
inches  in  diameter,  so  as  to  leave  only  one  circle  of 
limbs  seven  or  eight  feet  from  the  ground.  It  is  now 
the  third  year  of  the  tree's  decapitation,  and  one  of 
this  circle  of  horizontal  limbs  has  risen  up  several 
feet,  like  a  sleeper  rising  from  his  couch,  and  seems 
to  be  looking  around  inquiringly,  as  much  as  to  say : 
"  Come,  brothers,  wake  up !  Some  8ne  must  take  the 
lead  here  ;  shall  it  be  I  ?  " 

In  one  of  my  Norway  spruces  I  have  witnessed 
the  humbling  or  reducing  to  the  ranks  of  a  would-be 
leading  central  shoot.  For  a  couple  of  years  the 
vigorous  young  tree  was  led  upward  by  two  rival 


42  A  SPRAY    OF  PINE.    <• 

branches ;  they  appeared  almost  evenly  matched ;  but 
on  the  third  year,  one  of  them  clearly  took  the  lead, 
and  at  the  end  of  the  season  was  a  foot  or  more  in 
advance  of  the  other.  The  next  year  the  distance 
between  them  became  still  greater,  and  the  defeated 
leader  appeared  to  give  up  the  contest,  so  that  a  sea- 
son or  two  afterward  it  began  to  lose  its  upright 
attitude  and  to  fall  more  and  more  toward  a  hori- 
zontal position ;  it  was  willing  to  go  back  into  the 
ranks  of  the  lateral  branches.  Its  humiliation  was 
so  great  that  it  even  for  a  time  dropped  below 
them,  but  toward  midsummer  it  lifted  up  its  head  a 
little,  and  was  soon  fairly  in  the  position  of  a  side 
branch,  simulating  defeat  and  willing  subordination 
as  completely  as  if  it  had  been  a  conscious  sentient 
being. 

The  evergreens  can  keep  a  secret  the  year  round, 
some  one  has  said.  How  well  they  keep  the  secret  of 
the  shedding  of  their  leaves  !  so  well  that  in  the  case 
of  the  spruces  we  hardly  know  when  it  does  occur.  In 
fact,  the  spruces  do  not  properly  shed  their  leaves  at 
all,  but  simply  outgrow  them,  after  carrying  them  an 
indefinite  time.  Some  of  the  species  carry  their 
leaves  five  or  six  years.  The  hemlock  drops  its 
leaves  very  irregularly  :  the  winds  and  the  storms 
whip  them  off ;  in  winter  the  snow  beneath  them  is 
often  covered  with  them. 

But  the  pine  sheds  its  leaves  periodically,  though 
always  as  it  were  stealthily  and  under  cover  of  the 
newer  foliage.  The  white  pine  usually  sheds  its  leaves 


A  SPRAY  OF  PINE.  43 

in  midsummer,  though  I  have  known  all  the  pines  to 
delay  till  October.  It  is  on  with  the  new  love  before 
it  is  off  with  the  old.  From  May  till  near  autumn 
it  carries  two  crops  of  leaves,  last  year's  and  the  pres- 
ent year's.  Emerson's  inquiry, 

*'  How  the  sacred  pine-tree  adds 
To  her  old  leaves  new  myriads," 

is  framed  in  strict  accordance  with  the  facts.  It  is 
to  her  old  leaves  that  she  adds  the  new.  Only  the 
new  growth,  the  outermost  leaves,  are  carried  over 
till  the  next  season,  thus  keeping  the  tree  always 
clothed  and  green.  As  its  molting  season  approaches, 
these  old  leaves,  all  the  rear  ranks  on  the  limbs, 
begin  to  turn  yellow,  and  a  careless  observer  might 
think  the  tree  was  struck  with  death ;  but  it  is  not. 
The  decay  stops  just  where  the  growth  of  the  previ- 
ous spring  began,  and  presently  the  tree  stands  green 
and  vigorous,  with  a  newly-laid  carpet  of  fallen  leaves 
beneath  it. 

I  wonder  why  it  is  that  the  pine  has  an  ancient 
look,  a  suggestion  in  some  way  of  antiquity  ?  Is  it 
because  we  know  it  to  be  the  oldest  tree  ?  or  is  it  not 
rather  that  its  repose,  its  silence,  its  unchangeable- 
ness,  suggest  the  past,  and  cause  it  to  stand  out  in 
sharp  contrast  upon  the  background  of  the  flitting 
fugitive  present  ?  It  has  such  a  look  of  permanence  ! 
When  growing  from  the  rocks  it  seems  expressive  of 
the  same  geologic  antiquity  as  they.  It  has  the  sim- 
plicity of  primitive  things  ;  the  deciduous  trees  seem 
more  complex,  more  heterogeneous ;  they  have  greater 


44  A  SPRAY   OF  PINE. 

versatility,  more  resources.  The  pine  has  but  one 
idea,  and  that  is  to  mount  heavenward  by  regular 
steps,  —  tree  of  fate,  tree  of  dark  shadows  and  of 
mystery. 

The  pine  is  the  tree  of  silence.  Who  was  the  God- 
dess of  Silence  ?  Look  for  her  altars  amid  the  pines, 
—  silence  above,  silence  below.  Pass  from  deciduous 
woods  into  pine  woods  of  a  windy  day  and  you  think 
the  day  has  suddenly  become  calm.  Then  how  silent 
to  the  foot !  One  walks  over  a  carpet  of  pine  needles 
almost  as  noiselessly  as  over  the  carpets  of  our  dwell- 
ings. Do  these  halls  lead  to  the  chambers  of  the 
great  that  all  noise  should  be  banished  from  them  ? 
Let  the  designers  come  here  and  get  the  true  pattern 
for  a  carpet  —  a  soft  yellowish  brown  with  only  a 
red  leaf,  or  a  bit  of  gray  moss,  or  a  dusky  lichen 
scattered  here  and  there ;  a  background  that  does  not 
weary  or  bewilder  the  eye,  or  insult  the  ground-loving 
foot. 

How  friendly  the  pine-tree  is  to  man,  —  so  docile 
and  available  as  timber  and  so  warm  and  protective 
as  shelter.  Its  balsam  is  salve  to  his  wounds,  its 
fragrance  is  long  life  to  his  nostrils  ;  an  abiding,  per- 
ennial tree,  tempering  the  climate,  cool  as  murmur- 
ing waters  in  summer  and  like  a  wrapping  of  fur  in 
winter. 

The  deciduous  trees  are  inconstant  friends  that  fail 
us  when  adverse  winds  do  blow,  but  the  pine  and  all 
its  tribe  look  winter  cheerily  in  the  face,  tossing  the 
snow,  masquerading  in  his  arctic  livery,  in  fact  hold- 


A  SPRAY  OF  PINE.  45 

ing  high  carnival  from  fall  to  spring.    The  Norseman  , 
of  the  woods,  lofty  and  aspiring,  tree  without  bluster 
or  noise,  that   sifts   the   howling  storm   into   a  fine 
spray  of  sound  ;  symmetrical  tree,  tapering,  columnar,  ' 
shaped  as  in  a  lathe,  the  preordained  mast  of  ships, 
the  mother  of   colossal  timbers  ;    centralized,  tower- 
ing, patriarchal,  coming   down  from  the  foreworld, 
counting  centuries  in  thy  rings  and  outlasting  empires 
in  thy  decay. 

A  little  tall  talk  seems  not  amiss  on  such  a  sub- 
ject. The  American  or  white  pine  has  been  known 
to  grow  to  a  height  of  two  hundred  and  sixty  feet, 
slender  and  tapering  as  a  rush,  and  equally  available 
for  friction  matches  or  the  mast  of  a  ship  of  the  line. 
It  is  potent  upon  the  sea  and  upon  the  land,  and  lends 
itself  to  become  a  standard  for  giants  or  a  toy  for 
babes,  with  equal  readiness.  No  other  tree  so  widely 
useful  in  the  mechanic  arts  or  so  beneficent  in  the 
economy  of  nature.  House  of  refuge  for  the  winter 
birds  and  inn  and  hostelry  for  the  spring  and  fall 
emigrants.  All  the  northern  creatures  are  more  or 
less  dependent  upon  the  pine.  Nature  has  made  a 
singular  exception  in  the  conformation  of  the  beaks 
of  certain  birds  that  they  might  the  better  feed  upon 
the  seeds  of  its  cones,  as  in  the  cross-bills.  Then  the 
pine  grosbeak  and  pine  linnet  are  both  nurslings  of 
this  tree.  Certain  of  the  warblers,  also,  the  natural- 
ist seldom  finds  except  amid  its  branches. 

The  dominant  races  come  from  the  region  of  the 
pine. 


46  A  SPRAY  OP  PINE. 

"  Who  liveth  by  the  rugged  pint 
Foundeth  a  heroic  line;" 

says  Emerson. 

"  Who  liveth  in  the  palace  hall 
Waneth  fast  and  spendeth  all." 

The  pines  of  Norway  and  Sweden  sent  out  the  vi- 
kings, and  out  of  the  pine  woods  of  northern  Europe 
came  the  virile  barbarian  overrunning  the  effete  south- 
ern countries. 

"  And  grant  to  dwellers  with  the  pine 
Dominion  o'er  the  palm  and  vine." 

There  is  something  sweet  and  piny  about  the  northern 
literatures  as  contrasted  with  those  of  the  voluble  and 
passionate  south  —  something  in  them  that  heals  the 
mind's  hurts  like  a  finer  balsam.  In  reading  Bjorn- 
son,  or  Andersen,  or  Russian  Tourgueneff,  though 
one  may  not  be  in  contact  with  the  master  spirits  of 
the  world,  he  is  yet  inhaling  an  atmosphere  that  is 
resinous  and  curative ;  he  is  under  an  influence  that 
is  arboreal,  temperate,  balsamic. 

"  The  white  pine,"  says  Wilson  Flagg  in  his  "  Woods 
and  Waysides  of  New  England,"  "  has  no  legendary 
history.  Being  an  American  tree,  it  is  celebrated 
neither  in  poetry  nor  romance."  Not  perhaps  in 
Old  World  poetry  and  romance,  but  certainly  in  that 
of  the  New  World.  The  New  England  poets  have 
not  overlooked  the  pine,  how  much  they  may  have 
gone  abroad  for  their  themes  and  tropes.  Whittier's 
"  Playmate  "  is  written  to  the  low  monotone  of  the 
pine. 


A   SPRAY  OF  PINE.  47 

"  The  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill, 
Their  song  was  soft  and  low, 
The  blossoms  in  the  sweet  May  wind 
Were  falling  like  the  snow." 

Lowell's  "  To  a  Pine-Tree  "  is  well  known,  — 

"  Far  up  on  Katahdin  thou  towerest 

Purple-blue  with  the  distance  and  vast ; 

Like  a  cloud  o'er  the  lowlands  thou  lowerest, 
That  hangs  poised  on  a  lull  in  the  blast 

To  its  fall  leaning  awful." 

In  his  "  A  Mood,"  his  attention  is  absorbed  by  this 
tree,  and  in  the  poet's  quest  of  the  muse,  he  says,  — 

"I  haunt  the  pine-dark  solitudes, 
With  soft  brown  silence  carpeted." 

But  the  real  white  pine  among  our  poets  is  Emer- 
son. Against  that  rustling  deciduous  background  of 
the  New  England  poets,  he  shows  dark  and  aspiring, 
Emerson  seems  to  have  a  closer  fellowship  with  the 
pine  than  with  any  other  tree,  and  it  recurs  again  and 
again  in  his  poems.  In  his  "  Garden,"  the  pine  is 
the  principal  vegetable,  —  "  the  snow-loving  pines,"  as 
he  so  aptly  says,  and  "  the  hemlocks  tall,  untamable." 
It  is  perhaps  from  the  pine  that  he  gets  the  idea  that 
"  Nature  loves  the  number  five ;  "  its  leaves  are  in 
fives  and  its  whorl  of  branches  is  composed  of  five. 
His  warbler  is  the  "  pine  warbler,"  and  he  sees  "  the 
pigeons  in  the  pines,"  where  they  are  seldom  to  be 
seen.  He  even  puts  a  "  pine  state-house  "  in  his 
"  Boston  Hymn." 

But  more  than  that,  his  "  Woodnotes,"  one  of  hii 


48  A  SPRAY  OF  PINE. 

longest  poems,  is  mainly  the  notes  of  the  pine.  The- 
odore Parker  said  that  a  tree  that  talked  like  Em- 
erson's pine  ought  to  be  cut  down,  but  if  the  pine 
were  to  find  a  tongue  I  should  sooner  expect  to  hear 
the  Emersonian  dialect  from  it  than  almost  any 
other.  It  would  be  pretty  high  up  certainly,  and  go 
oyer  the  heads  of  most  of  the  other  trees.  It  were 
sure  to  be  pointed,  though  the  point  few  could  see. 
And  it  would  not  be  garrulous  and  loud  mouthed, 
though  it  might  talk  on  and  on.  Whether  it  would 
preach  or  not  is  a  question,  but  I  have  no  doubt  it 
would  be  a  fragrant  healing  gospel  if  it  did.  I  think 
its  sentences  would  be  short  ones  with  long  pauses  be- 
tween them,  and  that  they  would  sprout  out  of  the  sub- 
ject independently  and  not  connect  or  interlock  very 
much.  There  would  be  breaks  and  chasms  or  may 
be  some  darkness  between  the  lines,  but  I  should  ex- 
pect from  it  a  lofty,  cheerful,  and  all-the-year-round 
philosophy.  The  temptation  to  be  oracular  would  no 
doubt  be  great,  and  could  be  more  readily  overlooked 
in  this  tree  than  in  any  other.  Then  the  pine  being 
the  oldest  tree,  great  wisdom  and  penetration  might  be 
expected  of  it. 

Though  Emerson's  pine  boasts 

"  My  garden  is  the  cloven  rock, 
And  my  manure  the  snow; 
And  drifting  sand  heaps  feed  my  stock, 
In  summer's  scorching  glow,"  — 

yet  the  great  white  pine  loves  a  strong  deep  soil. 
How  it  throve  along  our  river  bottom  and  pointed 


A  SPRAY   OF  PINE.  49 

out  the  best  land  to  the  early  settlers  !  Remnants  of 
its  stumps  are  still  occasionally  seen  in  land  that  has 
been  given  to  the  plough  these  seventy  or  eighty  years. 
In  Pennsylvania  the  stumps  are  wrenched  from  the 
ground  by  machinery  and  used  largely  for  fencing. 
Laid  upon  their  side  with  their  wide  branching  roots 
in  the  air,  they  form  a  barrier  before  which  even  the 
hound-pursued  deer  may  well  pause. 

This  aboriginal  tree  is  fast  disappearing  from  the 
country.  Its  second  growth  seems  to  be  a  degenerate 
species,  what  the  carpenters  contemptuously  call 
pumpkin  pine,  on  account  of  its  softness.  All  the 
large  tracts  and  provinces  of  the  original  tree  have 
been  invaded  and  ravished  by  the  lumbermen,  so 
that  only  isolated  bands,  and  straggling  specimens, 
like  the  remnants  of  a  defeated  and  disorganized 
army,  are  now  found  scattered  up  and  down  the 
country.  The  spring  floods  on  our  northern  rivers 
have  for  decades  of  years  been  moving  seething  walls 
of  pine  logs,  sweeping  down  out  of  the  wilderness. 
I  remember  pausing  beside  a  mammoth  pine  in  the 
Adirondac  woods,  standing  a  little  to  one  side  of  the 
destroyer's  track,  that  must  have  carried  its  green 
crown  near  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  above  the 
earth.  How  such  a  tree  impresses  one !  How  it 
swells  at  the  base  and  grows  rigid  as  if  with  muscular 
effort  in  its  determined  gripe  of  the  earth !  How  it 
lays  hold  of  the  rocks,  or  rends  them  asunder  to 
secure  its  hold  I  Nearly  all  trunk,  it  seems  to  have 
shed  its  limbs  like  youthful  follies  as  it  went  sky- 
4 


50  A  SPRAY  OF  PINE. 

ward,  or  as  the  builders  pull  down  their  scaffold-  I 
ings  and  carry  them  higher  as  the  temple  mounts ;  I 
nothing   superfluous,  no  waste   of   time   or   energy, 
the   one   purpose  to  cleave   the   empyrean   steadilyj 
held  to. 

At  the  Centennial  fair  I  saw  a  section  of  a  pine  from 
Canada  that  was  eight  feet  in  diameter,  and  that  had 
been  growing,  I  have  forgotten  how  many  centuries. 
But  this  was  only  a  sapling  beside  the  redwoods 
of  California,  one  of  which  would  carry  several  such 
trees  in  his  belt. 

In  the  absence  of  the  pine,  the  hemlock  is  a  grace- 
ful and  noble  tree.  In  primitive  woods  it  shoots  up 
in  the  same  manner,  drawing  the  ladder  up  after  it, 
and  attains  an  altitude  of  nearly  or  quite  a  hundred 
feet.  It  is  the  poor  man's  pine  and  destined  to  hum- 
bler uses  than  its  lordlier  brother.  It  follows  the 
pine  like  a  servitor,  keeping  on  higher  and  more 
rocky  ground,  and  going  up  the  minor  branch  valleys 
when  the  pine  follows  only  the  main  or  mother 
stream.  As  an  ornamental  tree  it  is  very  pleasing 
and  deserves  to  be  cultivated  more  than  it  is.  It  is  a 
great  favorite  with  the  sylvan  folk,  too.  The  ruffed 
grouse  prefers  it  to  the  pines ;  it  is  better  shelter  in 
winter,  and  its  buds  are  edible.  The  red  squirrel  has 
found  out  the  seeds  in  its  cones,  and  they  are  an  im- 
portant part  of  his  winter  stores.  There  is  a  hemlock 
warbler  also,  and  I  never  find  some  of  the  rarer  species, 
like  the  blackburnian,  or  blue  yellow-back,  except  in 
this  tree. 


A   SPRAY   OF  PINE.  51 

All  trees  in  primitive  woods  are  less  social,  less 
disposed  to  intermingle,  than  trees  in  groves  or  fields  : 
they  are  more  heady ;  they  meet  only  on  high  grounds ; 
they  shake  hands  over  the  heads  of  their  neighbors  ; 
the  struggle  for  life  is  sharper  and  more  merciless, 
—  in  these  and  other  respects  suggesting  men  in 
cities.  One  tree  falls  against  a  more  stanch  one  and 
bruises  only  itself;  a  weaker  one  it  carries  to  the 
ground  with  it. 

Both  the  pine  and  the  hemlock  make  friends  with 
the  birch,  the  maple,  and  the  oak,  and  one  of  the  most 
pleasing  and  striking  features  of  our  autumnal  scenery 
is  a  mountain  side  sown  broadcast  with  these  inter- 
mingled trees,  forming  a  combination  of  colors  like 
the  richest  tapestry,  the  dark  green  giving  body  and 
permanence,  the  orange  and  yellow  giving  light  and 
brilliancy. 


HARD  FARE. 


HARD   FARE. 

SUCH  a  winter  as  was  that  of  1880-81  —  deep 
snows  and  zero  weather  for  nearly  three  months  — 
proves  especially  trying  to  the  wild  creatures  that  at- 
tempt to  face  it.  The  supply  of  fat  (or  fuel)  with 
which  their  bodies  become  stored  in  the  fall  is  rapidly 
exhausted  by  the  severe  and  uninterrupted  cold,  and 
the  sources  from  which  fresh  supplies  are  usually  ob- 
tained are  all  but  wiped  out.  Even  the  fox  was  very 
hard  pressed  and  reduced  to  the  unusual  straits  of 
eating  frozen  apples  ;  the  pressure  of  hunger  must  be 
great,  indeed,  to  compel  Reynard  to  take  up  with 
such  a  diet.  A  dog  will  eat  corn,  but  he  cannot  di- 
gest it,  and  I  doubt  if  the  fox  extracted  anything 
more  than  the  cider  from  the  frozen  and  thawed  ap- 
ples. They  perhaps  served  to  amuse  and  occupy  his 
stomach  for  the  time.  Humboldt  says  wolves  eat 
earth,  especially  clay,  during  winter,  and  Pliny  makes 
a  similar  observation.  In  Greenland  the  dog  eats 
seaweed  when  other  food  fails.  In  tropical  countries, 
during  the  tropical  winter,  or  period  of  rains,  many 
savage  tribes  eat  clay.  It  distends  their  stomachs 
and  in  a  measure  satisfies  the  cravings  of  hunger. 
During  the  season  referred  to  the  crows  appeared  to 
have  little  else  than  frozen  apples  for  many  weeks ; 


56  HARD   FAKE. 

they  hung  about  the  orchards  as  a  last  resort,  and, 
after  scouring  the  desolate  landscape  over,  would  re- 
turn to  their  cider  with  resignation,  but  not  with 
cheerful  alacrity.  They  grew  very  bold  at  times,  and 
ventured  quite  under  rriy  porch,  and  filched  the  bones 
that  Lark,  the  dog,  had  left.  I  put  out  some  corn  on 
the  wall  near  by,  and  discovered  that  crows  will  not 
eat  corn  in  the  winter,  except  as  they  can  break  up 
the  kernels.  It  is  too  hard  for  their  gizzards  to  grind. 
Then  the  crow,  not  being  properly  a  granivorous  bird, 
but  a  carnivorous,  has  not  the  digestive,  or  rather  the 
pulverizing  power  of  the  domestic  fowls.  The  diffi- 
culty also  during  such  a  season  of  coming  at  the  soil 
and  obtaining  gravel-stones,  which,  in  such  cases,  are 
really  the  mill-stones,  may  also  have  something  to  do 
with  it.  Corn  that  has  been  planted  and  has  sprouted, 
crows  will  swallow  readily  enough,  because  it  is  then 
soft,  and  is  easily  ground.  My  impression  has  always 
been  that  in  spring  and  summer  they  will  also  pick 
up  any  chance  kernels  the  planters  may  have  dropped. 
But  as  I  observed  them  the  past  winter,  they  always 
held  the  kernel  under  one  foot  upon  the  wall,  and 
picked  it  to  pieces  before  devouring  it.  This  is  the 
manner  of  the  jays  also.  The  jays,  perhaps,  had  a 
tougher  time  during  the  winter  than  the  crows,  be- 
cause they  do  not  eat  fish  or  flesh,  but  depend  mainly 
upon  nuts.  A  troop  of  them  came  eagerly  to  my 
ash-heap  one  morning,  which  had  just  been  uncov- 
ered by  the  thaw,  but  they  found  little  except  cinders 
for  their  gizzards,  which,  maybe,  was  what  they 


HARD   FARE.  57 


wanted.  They  had  foraged  nearly  all  winter  upon 
my  neighbor's  corn-crib,  and  probably  their  mill- 
stones were  dull  and  needed  replacing.  They  reached 
the  corn  through  the  opening  between  the  slats,  and 
were  the  envy  of  the  crows,  who  watched  them  from 
the  near  trees,  but  dared  not  venture  up.  The  chick- 
adee, which  is  an  insectivorous  bird,  will  eat  corn  in 
winter.  It  will  carry  a  kernel  to  the  limb  of  a  tree, 
where,  held  beneath  its  tiny  foot,  it  will  peck  out  the 
eye  or  chit  of  the  corn  —  the  germinal  part  only. 
I  have  also  seen  the  woodpecker  in  winter  eat  the 
berries  of  the  poison  ivy.  Quails  will  eat  the  fruit 
of  the  poison  sumac,  and  grouse  are  killed  with  their 
crops  distended  with  the  leaves  of  the  laurel.  Grouse 
also  eat  the  berries  of  the  bitter-sweet. 

The  general  belief  among  country-people  that  the 
jay  hoards  up  nuts  for  winter  use  has  probably  some 
foundation  in  fact,  though  one  is  at  a  loss  to  know 
where  he  could  place  his  stores  so  that  they  would  not 
be  pilfered  by  the  mice  and  the  squirrels.  An  old 
hunter  told  me  he  had  seen  jays  secreting  beechnuts 
in  a  knot-hole  in  a  tree.  Probably  a  red  squirrel  saw 
them  too,  and  laughed  behind  his  tail.  One  day,  in 
October,  two  friends  of  mine,  out  hunting,  saw  a 
blue  jay  carrying  off  chestnuts  to  a  spruce  swamp. 
He  came  and  went  with  great  secrecy  and  dispatch: 
He  had  several  hundred  yards  to  fly  each  way,  but 
occupied  only  a  few  minutes  each  trip.  The  hunters 
lay  in  wait  to  shoot  him,  but  so  quickly  would  he 
seize  his  chestnut  and  be  off,  that  he  made  more  than 
a  dozen  trips  before  they  killed  him. 


58  HARD  FARE. 

A  lady  writing  to  me  from  Iowa,  says  :  "  I  must 
tell  you  what  I  saw  a  blue  jay  do  last  winter.  Flying 
down  to  the  ground  in  front  of  the  house,  he  put 
something  in  the  dead  grass,  drawing  the  grass  over 
it,  first  on  one  side,  then  on  the  other,  tramped  it 
down  just  exactly  as  a  squirrel  would,  then  walked 
around  the  spot,  examining  it  to  see  if  it  was  satisfac- 
tory. After  he  had  flown  away,  I  went  out  to  see 
what  he  had  hidden ;  it  was  a  nicely  shucked  peanut 
that  he  had  laid  up  for  a  time  of  scarcity."  Since 
then  I  have  myself  made  similar  observations.  I 
have  several  times  seen  jays  carry  off  chestnuts  and 
hide  them  here  and  there  upon  the  ground.  They 
put  only  one  in  a  place,  and  covered  it  up  with  grass 
or  leaves.  Instead,  therefore,  of  hoarding  up  nuts  for 
future  use,  when  the  jay  carries  them  off,  he  is  really 
planting  them.  When  the  snows  come  these  nuts  are 
lost  to  him,  even  if  he  remembered  the  hundreds  of 
places  where  he  had  dropped  them.  May  not  this  fact 
account  in  a  measure  for  the  oak  and  chestnut  trees 
that  spring  up  where  a  pine  forest  has  been  cleared 
from  the  ground  ?  Probably  the  crows  secrete  nuts 
in  the  same  way.  The  acorns  at  least  germinate  and 
remain  small  insignificant  shoots  until  the  pine  is  cut 
away  and  they  have  a  chance.  In  almost  any  pine 
wood  these  baby  oaks  may  be  seen  scattered  here  and 
there.  Jays  will  carry  off  and  secrete  corn  in  the 
same  way.  One  winter  I  put  out  ears  of  corn  near 
my  study  window  to  attract  these  birds.  They  were 
not  long  in  finding  them  out,  nor  long  in  stripping 


HARD   FARE.  59 

the  cob  of  its  kernels.  They  finally  came  to  the 
window-sill  and  picked  up  the  loose  kernels  I  scat- 
tered there.  At  no  time  did  they  eat  any  on  the 
spot,  but  were  solely  intent  on  carrying  it  away. 
They  would  take  eight  or  ten  grains  at  a  time,  ap- 
parently holding  it  in  the  throat  and  bill.  They 
carried  it  away  and  deposited  it  in  all  manner  of 
places;  sometimes  on  the  ground,  sometimes  in  de- 
cayed trees.  Once  I  saw  a  jay  deposit  his  load  in  an 
old  worm's  nest  in  a  near  by  apple-tree.  Whether 
these  stores  were  visited  afterward  by  the  birds,  I 
cannot  say.  Red-headed  woodpeckers  have  been  seen 
to  fill  crevices  in  posts  and  rails  with  acorns,  where 
they  were  found  and  eaten  by  gray  squirrels.  Oregon 
and  Mexican  woodpeckers  drill  holes  in  decayed  trees 
and  store  them  with  acorns,  putting  but  one  acorn  in 
a  hole,  but  hundreds  of  holes  in  a  tree  or  branch. 

A  bevy  of  quail  in  my  vicinity  got  through  the 
winter  by  feeding  upon  the  little  black  beans  con- 
tained in  the  pods  of  the  common  locust.  For  many 
weeks  their  diet  must  have  been  almost  entirely  le- 
guminous. The  surface  snow  in  the  locust-grove 
which  they  frequented  was  crossed  in  every  direction 
with  their  fine  tracks,  like  a  chain-stitch  upon  mus- 
lin, showing  where  they  went  from  pod  to  pod  and 
extracted  the  contents.  Where  quite  a  large  branch, 
filled  with  pods,  lay  upon  the  snow,  it  looked  as  if  the 
whole  flock  had  dined  or  breakfasted  off  it.  The 
wind  seemed  to  shake  down  the  pods  about  as  fast  as 
they  were  needed.  When  a  fresh  fall  of  snow  had 


60  HARD  FARE. 

blotted  out  everything,  it  was  not  many  hours  before 
the  wind  had  placed  upon  the  cloth  another  course ; 
but  it  was  always  the  same  old  course  —  beans,  beans. 
What  would  the  birds  and  the  fowls  do  during  such 
winters,  if  the  trees  and  the  shrubs  and  plants  all 
dropped  their  fruit  and  their  seeds  in  the  fall,  as  they 
do  their  leaves  ?  They  would  nearly  all  perish.  The 
apples  that  cling  to  the  trees,  the  pods  that  hang  to 
the  lowest  branches,  and  the  seeds  that  the  various 
weeds  and  grasses  hold  above  the  deepest  snows,  alone 
make  it  possible  for  many  birds  to  pass  the  winter 
among  us.  The  red  squirrel,  too,  what  would  he  do  ? 
He  lays  up  no  stores  like  the  provident  chipmunk, 
but  scours  about  for  food  in  all  weathers,  feeding 
upon  the  seeds  in  the  cones  of  the  hemlock  that  still 
cling  to  the  tree,  upon  sumac-bobs,  and  the  seeds  of 
frozen  apples.  I  have  seen  the  ground  under  a  wild 
apple-tree  that  stood  near  the  woods  completely  cov- 
ered with  the  "  chonkings  "  of  the  frozen  apples,  the 
work  of  the  squirrels  in  getting  at  the  seeds  ;  not  an 
apple  had  been  left,  and  apparently,  not  a  seed  had 
been  lost.  But  the  squirrels  in  this  particular  locality 
!  evidently  got  pretty  hard  up  before  spring,  for  they 
/  developed  a  new  source  of  food-supply.  A  young 
bushy-topped  sugar-maple,  about  forty  feet  high, 
standing  beside  a  stone  fence  near  the  woods,  was  at- 
tacked, and  more  than  half  denuded  of  its  bark.  The 
object  of  the  squirrels  seemed  to  be  to  get  at  the  soft, 
white,  mucilaginous  substance  (cambium  layer)  be- 
tween the  bark  and  the  wood.  The  ground  was  cov- 


HARD  FARE.  61 

ered  with  fragments  of  the  bark,  and  the  white,  naked 
stems  and  branches  had  been  scraped  by  fine  teeth. 
When  the  sap  starts  in  the  early  spring,  the  squirrels 
add  this  to  their  scanty  supplies.  They  perforate  the 
bark  of  the  branches  of  the  maples  with  their  chisel- 
like'  teeth,  and  suck  the  sweet  liquid  as  it  slowly 
oozes  out.  It  is  not  much  as  food,  but  evidently  it 
helps. 

I  have  said  the  red  squirrel  does  not  lay  by  a  store 
of  food  for  winter  use,  like  the  chipmunk  and  wood- 
mice  ;  yet  in  the  fall  he  sometimes  hoards  in  a  ten- 
tative, temporary  kind  of  way.  I  have  seen  his  sav- 
ings —  butternuts  and  black  walnuts  —  stuck  here  and 
there  in  saplings  and  trees,  near  his  nest ;  sometimes 
carefully  inserted  in  the  upright  fork  of  a  limb,  or 
twig.  One  day,  late  in  November,  I  counted  a  dozen 
or  more  black  walnuts  put  away  in  this  manner  in  a 
little  grove  of  locusts,  chestnuts,  and  maples,  by  the 
roadside,  and  could  but  smile  at  the  wise  forethought 
of  the  rascally  squirrel.  His  supplies  were  probably 
safer  that  way  than  if  more  elaborately  hidden.  They 
were  well  distributed ;  his  eggs  were  not  all  in  one 
basket,  and  he  could  go  away  from  home  without  any 
fear  that  his  storehouse  would  be  broken  into  in  his 
absence.  The  next  week,  when  I  passed  that  way, 
the  nuts  were  all  gone  but  two.  I  saw  the  squirrel 
that  doubtless  laid  claim  to  them,  on  each  occasion. 

There  is  one  thing  the  red  squirrel  knows  uner- 
ringly that  I  do  not  (there  are  probably  several  other 
things) ;  that  is,  on  which  side  of  the  butternut  the 


62  HARD  FARE. 

meat  lies.  lie  always  gnaws  through  the  shell  so  as 
to  strike  the  kernel  broadside  and  thus  easily  extract 
it,  while  to  my  eyes  there  is  no  external  mark  or  in- 
dication, in  the  form  or  appearance  of  the  nut,  as 
there  is  in  the  hickory-nut,  by  which  I  can  tell  whether 
the  edge  or  the  side  of  the  meat  is  toward  me.  But, 
examine  any  number  of  nuts  that  the  squirrels  have 
rifled,  and,  as  a  rule,  you  will  find  they  always  drill 
through  the  shell  at  the  one  spot  where  the  meat  will 
be  most  exposed.  It  stands  them  in  hand  to  know, 
and  they  do  know.  Doubtless,  if  butternuts  were  a 
main  source  of  my  food,  and  I  were  compelled  to 
gnaw  into  them,  I  should  learn,  too,  on  which  side 
my  bread  was  buttered. 

A  hard  winter  affects  the  chipmunks  very  little ; 
they  are  snug  and  warm  in  their  burrows  in  the 
ground  and  under  the  rocks,  with  a  bountiful  store  of 
nuts  or  grain.  I  have  heard  of  nearly  a  half-bushel 
of  chestnuts  being  taken  from  a  single  den.  They 
usually  hole  in  November,  and  do  not  come  out  again 
till  March  or  April,  unless  the  winter  is  very  open  and 
mild.  Gray  squirrels,  when  they  have  been  partly 
domesticated  in  parks  and  groves  near  dwellings,  are 
said  to  hide  their  nuts  here  and  there  upon  the  ground, 
and  in  winter  to  dig  them  up  from  beneath  the  snow, 
always  hitting  the  spot  accurately.  A  pair  of  flying 
squirrels  which  I  observed  one  season  in  an  unoccu- 
pied country-house  had  a  pile  of  large  fine  chestnuts 
near  their  nest  till  spring,  when  the  nuts  disappeared. 
They  probably  kept  them  till  the  period  of  greatest 


HARD  FARE.  63 

scarcity,  and  until  their  young  made  demands  upon 
them. 

The  woodpeckers  and  chickadees  doubtless  find 
food  as  plentiful  during  severe  winters  as  during  more 
open  ones,  because  they  confine  their  search  almost 
entirely  to  the  trunks  and  branches  of  trees,  where 
the  latter  pick  up  the  eggs  of  insects  and  various  mi- 
croscopic tidbits,  and  where  the  former  find  their  ac- 
customed fare  of  eggs  and  larvae  also.  An  enamel 
of  ice  upon  the  trees  alone  puts  an  embargo  upon 
their  supplies.  At  such  seasons  the  ruffed  grouse 
"  buds  "  or  goes  hungry  ;  while  the  snow-birds,  snow- 
bunting,  Canada  sparrow,  goldfinches,  shore-larks,  and 
red-polls  are  dependent  upon  the  weeds  and  grasses 
that  rise  above  the  snow,  and  upon  the  litter  of  the 
hay-stack  and  barn-yard.  Neither  do  the  deep  snows 
and  the  severe  cold  materially  affect  the  supplies  of 
the  rabbit.  The  deeper  the  snow,  the  nearer  he  is 
brought  to  the  tops  of  the  tender  bushes  and  shoots. 
I  see  in  my  walks  where  he  has  cropped  the  tops  of 
the  small,  bushy,  soft  maples,  cutting  them  slantingly 
as  you  would  do  with  a  knife,  and  quite  as  smoothly. 
Indeed,  the  mark  was  so  like  that  of  a  knife  that,  not- 
withstanding the  tracks,  it  was  only  after  the  closest 
scrutiny  that  I  was  convinced  it  was  the  sharp,  chisel- 
like  teeth  of  the  rabbit.  He  leaves  no  chips,  and  ap- 
parently makes  clean  work  of  eveiy  twig  he  cuts  off. 

The  wild  or  native  mice  usually  lay  up  stores  in 
the  fall,  in  the  shape  of  various  nuts,  grain,  and  seeds, 
yet  the  provident  instinct,  as  in  the  red  squirrel  and 


64  HARD   FARE. 

in  the  jay,  seems  only  partly  developed  in  them ;  in- 
stead of  carrying  these  supplies  home,  they  hide  them 
in  the  nearest  convenient  place.  I  have  known  them 
to  carry  a  pint  or  more  of  hickory  nuts  and  deposit 
them  in  a  pair  of  boots  standing  in  the  chamber  of  an 
out-house.  Near  the  chestnut-trees  they  will  fill  little 
pocket-like  depressions  in  the  ground  with  chestnuts ; 
in  a  grain  field  they  carry  the  grain  under  stones ; 
under  some  cover  beneath  cherry-trees  they  collect 
great  numbers  of  cherry-pits.  Hence,  when  cold 
weather  comes,  instead  of  staying  at  home  like  the 
chipmunk,  they  gad  about  hither  and  thither  looking 
up  their  supplies.  One  may  see  their  tracks  on  the 
snow  everywhere  in  the  woods  and  fields  and  by  the 
roadside.  The  advantage  of  this  way  of  living  is  that 
it  leads  to  activity,  and  probably  to  sociability. 

These  wild  mice  are  fond  of  bees  and  of  honey, 
and  they  apparently  like  nothing  better  than  to  be 
allowed  to  take  up  their  quarters  in  winter  in  some 
vacant  space  in  a  hive  of  bees.  A  chamber  just  over 
the  bees  seems  to  be  preferred,  as  here  they  get  the 
benefit  of  the  warmth  generated  by  the  insects.  One 
very  cold  winter  I  wrapped  up  one  of  my  hives  with 
.my  shawl.  Before  long  I  noticed  that  the  shawl  was 
beginning  to  have  a  very  torn  and  tattered  appear- 
ance. On  examination,  I  found  that  a  native  mouse 
had  established  itself  in  the  top  of  the  hive  and  had 
levied  a  ruinous  tax  upon  the  shawl  to  make  itself  a 
nest.  Never  was  a  fabric  more  completely  reduced 
into  its  original  elements  than  were  large  sections  of 


HARD   FARE.  65 

that  shawl.  It  was  a  masterly  piece  of  analysis.  The 
work  of  the  wheel  and  the  loom  was  exactly  reversed, 
and  what  was  once  shawl  was  now  the  finest  and 
softest  of  wool.  The  white-footed  mouse  is  much  more 
common  along  the  fences  and  in  the  woods  than  one 
would  suspect.  One  winter  day  I  set  a  mouse-trap  — 
the  kind  known  as  the  delusion  trap  —  beneath  some 
ledges  in  the  edge  of  the  woods,  to  determine  what 
species  of  mouse  was  most  active  at  this  season.  The 
snow  fell  so  deeply  that  I  did  not  visit  my  trap  for  two 
or  three  weeks.  When  I  did  so,  it  was  literally  packed 
full  of  white-footed  mice.  There  were  seven  in  all, 
and  not  room  for  another.  Our  woods  are  full  of 
these  little  creatures,  and  they  appear  to  have  a 
happy,  social  time  of  it,  even  in  the  severest  winters. 
Their  little  tunnels  under  the  snow  and  their  hurried 
strides  upon  its  surface  may  be  noted  everywhere. 
They  link  tree  and  stump,  or  rock  and  tree,  by  their 
pretty  trails.  They  evidently  travel  for  adventure 
and  to  hear  the  news,  as  well  as  for  food.  They 
know  that  foxes  and  owls  are  about,  and  they  keep 
pretty  close  to  cover.  When  they  cross  an  exposed 
place,  they  do  it  hurriedly. 

Such  a  winter  as  I  have  referred  to  probably  de- 
stroys a  great  many  of  our  half-migratory  birds.  The 
mortality  appears  to  be  the  greatest  in  the  Border 
States,  where  so  many  species,  like  the  sparrows, 
robins,  bluebirds,  meadow-larks,  kinglets,  etc.,  usually 
pass  the  cold  season.  A  great  many  birds  are  said  to 
have  died  in  New  Jersey  and  Pennsylvania,  including 


66  HARD  FARE. 

game-birds.  A  man  in  Chester  County  saw  a  fox 
digging  in  the  snow ;  on  examining  the  spot,  he  found 
half  a  dozen  quailf  frozen  to  death.  Game-birds  and 
nearly  all  other  birds  will  stand  the  severest  weather 
if  food  is  plenty ;  but  to  hunger  and  cold  both,  the 
hardiest  species  may  succumb. 

Meadow-larks  often  pass  the  winter  as  far  north  as 
Pennsylvania.  A  man  residing  in  that  State  relates 
how,  in  the  height  of  the  severest  cold,  three  half- 
famished  larks  came  to  his  door  in  quest  of  food. 
He  removed  the  snow  from  a  small  space,  and  spread 
the  poor  birds  a  lunch  of  various  grains  and  seeds. 
They  ate  heartily  and  returned  again  the  next  day, 
and  the  next,  each  time  bringing  one  or  more  droop- 
ing and  half-starved  companions  with  them,  till  there 
was  quite  a  flock  of  them.  Their  deportment  changed, 
their  forms  became  erect  and  glossy,  and  the  feeble 
mendicants  became  strong  and  vivacious  birds  again. 
These  larks  fell  in  good  hands,  but  I  am  persuaded 
that  this  species  suffered  more  than  any  other  of  our 
birds  during  that  winter.  In  the  spring  they  were  un- 
usually late  in  making  their  appearance,  —  the  first 
one  noted  by  me  on  the  9th  of  April,  —  and  they 
were  scarce  in  my  locality  during  the  whole  season. 

Birds  not  of  a  feather  flock  together  in  winter. 
Hard  times  or  a  common  misfortune  makes  all  the 
world  akin.  A  Noah's  ark  with  antagonistic  species 
living  in  harmony  is  not  an  improbable  circumstance 
in  a  forty-day  and  a  forty-night  rain.  In  severe 
weather,  when  the  snow  lies  deep  on  the  ground,  I 


HARD  FARE.  67 

frequently  see  a  loose,  heterogeneous  troop  of  birds 
pass  my  door,  engaged  in  the  common  search  for 
food  :  snow-birds,  Canada  sparrows,  and  goldfinches 
on  the  ground,  and  kinglets  and  nut-hatches  in  the 
tree  above,  —  all  drifting  slowly  in  the  same  direction, 
— the  snow-birds  and  sparrows  closely  associated,  but 
the  goldfinches  rather  clannish  and  exclusive,  while 
the  kinglets  and  nut-hatches  keep  still  more  aloof. 
These  birds  were  probably  not  drawn,  even  thus 
loosely,  together  by  any  social  instincts,  but  by  a 
common  want ;  all  were  hungry,  and  the  activity  of 
one  species  attracted  and  drew  after  it  another  and 
another.  "  I  will  look  that  way,  too,"  the  kinglet  and 
creeper  probably  said,  when  they  saw  the  other  birds 
busy  and  heard  their  merry  voices. 


THE  TRAGEDIES  OF  THE  NESTS. 


THE  TRAGEDIES   OF  THE  NESTS. 

THE  life  of  the  birds,  especially  of  our  migratory 
song-birds,  is  a  series  of  adventures  and  of  hair- 
breadth escapes  by  flood  and  field.  Very  few  of 
them  probably  die  a  natural  death,  or  even  live  out 
half  their  appointed  days.  The  home  instinct  is 
strong  in  birds  as  it  is  in  most  creatures ;  and  I  am 
convinced  that  every  spring  a  large  number  of  those 
which  have  survived  the  Southern  campaign  return  to 
their  old  haunts  to  breed.  A  Connecticut  farmer 
took  me  out  under  his  porch,  one  April  day,  and 
showed  me  a  phoebe  bird's  nest  six  stories  high.  The 
same  bird  had  no  doubt  returned  year  after  year; 
and  as  there  was  room  for  only  one  nest  upon  her 
favorite  shelf,  she  had  each  season  reared  a  new 
superstructure  upon  the  old  as  a  foundation.  I  have 
heard  of  a  white  robin  —  an  albino  —  that  nested 
several  years  in  succession  in  the  suburbs  of  a  Mary- 
land city.  A  sparrow  with  a  very  marked  peculiar- 
ity of  song  I  have  heard  several  seasons  in  my  own 
locality.  But  the  birds  do  not  all  live  to  return  to 
their  old  haunts :  the  bobolinks  and  starlings  run  a 
gauntlet  of  fire  from  the  Hudson  to  the  Savannah, 
and  the  robins  and  meadow-larks  and  other  song- 
birds are  shot  by  boys  and  pot-hunters  in  great  num- 


72  THE  TRAGEDIES  OF  THE  NESTS. 

bers,  —  to  say  nothing  of  their  danger  from  hawks 
and  owls.  But  of  those  that  do  return,  what  perils 
beset  their  nests,  even  in  the  most  favored  local- 
ities !  The  cabins  of  the  early  settlers,  when  the 
country  was  swarming  with  hostile  Indians,  were  not 
surrounded  by  such  dangers.  The  tender  households 
of  the  birds  are  not  only  exposed  to  hostile  Indians 
in  the  shape  of  cats  and  collectors,  but  to  numer- 
ous murderous  and  bloodthirsty  animals,  against 
whom  they  have  no  defense  but  concealment.  They 
lead  the  darkest  kind  of  pioneer  life,  even  in  our 
gardens  and  orchards,  and  under  the  walls  of  our 
houses.  Not  a  day  or  a  night  passes,  from  the  time 
the  eggs  are  laid  till  the  young  are  flown,  when  the 
chances  are  not  greatly  in  favor  of  the  nest  being 
rifled  and  its  contents  devoured,  —  by  owls,  skunks, 
minks,  and  coons  at  night,  and  by  crows,  jays,  squir- 
rels, weasels,  snakes,  and  rats  during  the  day.  In- 
fancy, we  say,  is  hedged  about  by  many  perils ;  but 
the  infancy  of  birds  is  cradled  and  pillowed  in  peril. 
An  old  Michigan  settler  told  me  that  the  first  six 
children  that  were  born  to  him  died;  malaria  and 
teething  invariably  carried  them  off  when  they  had 
reached  a  certain  age  ;  but  other  children  were  born, 
the  country  improved,  and  by  and  by  the  babies 
weathered  the  critical  period,  and  the  next  six  lived 
and  grew  up.  The  birds,  too,  would  no  doubt  perse- 
vere six  times  and  twice  six  times,  if  the  season  were 
long  enough,  and  finally  rear  their  family,  but  the 
waning  summer  cuts  them  short,  and  but  few  species 


THE  TRAGEDIES   OF  THE  NESTS.  73 

have  the  heart  and  strength  to  make  even  the  third 
trial. 

The  first  nest-builders  in  spring,  like  the  first  set- 
tlers near  hostile  tribes,  suffer  the  most  casualties.  A 
large  proportion  of  the  nests  of  April  and  May  are 
destroyed  ;  their  enemies  have  been  many  months 
without  eggs,  and  their  appetites  are  keen  for  them. 
It  is  a  time,  too,  when  other  food  is  scarce,  and  the 
crows  and  squirrels  are  hard  put.  But  the  second 
nests  of  June,  and  still  more  the  nests  of  July  and 
August,  are  seldom  molested.  It  is  rarely  that  the 
nest  of  the  goldfinch  or  cedar-bird  is  harried. 

My  neighborhood  on  the  Hudson  is  perhaps  ex- 
ceptionally unfavorable  as  a  breeding  haunt  for  birds, 
owing  to  the  abundance  of  fish-crows  and  of  red 
squirrels ;  and  the  season  of  which  this  chapter  is 
mainly  a  chronicle,  the  season  of  1881,  seems  to  have 
been  a  black-letter  one  even  for  this  place,  for  at 
least  nine  nests  out  of  every  ten  that  I  observed  dur- 
ing that  spring  and  summer  failed  of  their  proper 
issue.  From  the  first  nest  I  noted,  which  was  that 
of  a  bluebird,  —  built  (very  imprudently  I  thought 
at  the  time)  in  a  squirrel-hole  in  a  decayed  apple- 
tree,  about  the  last  of  April,  and  which  came  to 
naught,  even  the  mother-bird,  I  suspect,  perishing  by 
a  violent  death,  —  to  the  last,  which  was  that  of  a 
snow-bird,  observed  in  August,  among  the  Catskills, 
deftly  concealed  in  a  mossy  bank  by  the  side  of  a 
road  that  skirted  a  wood,  where  the  tall  thimble  black- 
berries grew  in  abundance,  and  from  which  the  last 


74      THE  TRAGEDIES  OF  THE  NESTS. 

young  one  was  taken,  when  it  was  about  half  grown, 
by  some  nocturnal  walker  or  daylight  prowler,  some 
untoward  fate  seemed  hovering  about  them.  It  was 
a  season  of  calamities,  of  violent  deaths,  of  pillage 
and  massacre,  among  our  feathered  neighbors.  For 
the  first  time  I  noticed  that  the  orioles  were  not  safe 
in  their  strong  pendent  nests.  Three  broods  were 
started  in  the  apple-trees,  only  a  few  yards  from 
the  house,  where,  for  several  previous  seasons,  the 
birds  had  nested  without  molestation ;  but  this  time 
the  young  were  all  destroyed  when  about  half  grown. 
Their  chirping  and  chattering,  which  was  so  notice- 
able one  day,  suddenly  ceased  the  next.  The  nests 
were  probably  plundered  at  night,  and  doubtless  by 
the  little  red  screech-owl,  which  I  know  is  a  denizen 
of  these  old  orchards,  living  in  the  deeper  cavities  of 
the  trees.  The  owl  could  alight  upon  the  top  of  the 
nest,  and  easily  thrust  his  murderous  claw  down  into 
its  long  pocket  and  seize  the  young  and  draw  them 
forth.  The  tragedy  of  one  of  the  nests  was  height- 
ened, or  at  least  made  more  palpable,  by  one  of  the 
half-fledged  birds,  either  in  its  attempt  to  escape  or 
while  in  the  clutches  of  the  enemy,  being  caught  and 
entangled  in  one  of  the  horse-hairs  by  which  the  nest 
was  stayed  and  held  to  the  limb  above.  There  it 
hung  bruised  and  dead,  gibbeted  to  its  own  cradle. 
This  nest  was  the  theatre  of  another  little  tragedy 
later  in  the  season.  Some  time  in  August  a  bluebird, 
indulging  its  propensity  to  peep  and  pry  into  holes 
and  crevices,  alighted  upon  it  and  probably  inspected 


THE  TRAGEDIES   OP  THE  NESTS.  75 

the  interior ;  but  by  some  unlucky  move  it  got  its 
wings  entangled  in  this  same  fatal  horse-hair.  Its 
efforts  to  free  itself  appeared  only  to  result  in  its 
being  more  securely  and  hopelessly  bound ;  and  there 
it  perished ;  and  there  its  form,  dried  and  embalmed 
by  the  summer  heats,  was  yet  hanging  in  September, 
the  outspread  wings  and  plumage  showing  nearly  as 
bright  as  in  life. 

A  correspondent  writes  me  that  one  of  his  orioles 
got  entangled  in  a  cord  while  building  her  nest,  and 
that  though  by  the  aid  of  a  ladder  he  reached  and 
liberated  her,  she  died  soon  afterward.  He  also 
found  a  "  chippie  "  (called  also  "  hair  bird ")  sus- 
pended from  a  branch  by  a  horse-hair,  beneath  a 
partly-constructed  nest.  I  heard  of  a  cedar-bird 
caught  and  destroyed  in  the  same  way,  and  of  two 
young  bluebirds,  around  whose  legs  a  horse-hair  had 
become  so  tightly  wound  that  the  legs  withered  up 
and  dropped  off.  The  birds  became  fledged,  and 
finally  left  the  nest  with  the  others.  Such  tragedies 
are  probably  quite  common. 

Before  the  advent  of  civilization  in  this  country,  the 
oriole  probably  built  a  much  deeper  nest  than  it  usu- 
ally does  at  present.  When  now  it  builds  in  remote 
trees  and  along  the  borders  of  the  woods,  its  nest,  I 
have  noticed,  is  long  and  gourd-shaped ;  but  in  or- 
chards and  near  dwellings  it  is  only  a  deep  cup  or 
pouch.  It  shortens  it  up  in  proportion  as  the  danger 
lessens.  Probably  a  succession  of  disastrous  years,  like 
the  one  under  review,  would  cause  it  to  lengthen  it 


76  THE  TRAGEDIES  OF   THE  NESTS. 

again  beyond  the  reach  of  owl's  talons  or  jay-bird's 
beak. 

The  first  song-sparrow's  nest  I  observed  in  the 
spring  of  1881  was  in  a  field  under  a  fragment  of  a 
board,  the  board  being  raised  from  the  ground  a 
couple  of  inches  by  two  poles.  It  had  its  full  com- 
plement of  eggs,  and  probably  sent  forth  a  brood  of 
young  birds,  though  as  to  this  I  cannot  speak  posi- 
tively, as  I  neglected  to  observe  it  further.  It  was  well 
sheltered  and  concealed,  and  was  not  easily  come  at 
by  any  of  its  natural  enemies,  save  snakes  and  weasels. 
But  concealment  often  avails  little.  In  May,  a  song- 
sparrow,  that  had  evidently  met  with  disaster  earlier 
in  the  season,  built  its  nest  in  a  thick  mass  of  wood- 
bine against  the  side  of  my  house,  about  fifteen  feet 
from  the  ground.  Perhaps  it  took  the  hint  from  its 
cousin,  the  English  sparrow.  The  nest  was  admira- 
bly placed,  protected  from  the  storms  by  the  over- 
hanging eaves  and  from  all  eyes  by  the  thick  screen 
of  leaves.  Only  by  patiently  watching  the  suspicious 
bird,  as  she  lingered  near  with  food  in  her  beak,  did 
I  discover  its  whereabouts.  That  brood  is  safe,  I 
thought,  beyond  doubt.  But  it  was  not :  the  nest 
was  pillaged  one  night,  either  by  an  owl,  or  else  by  a 
rat  that  had  climbed  into  the  vine,  seeking  an  en- 
trance to  the  house.  The  mother-bird,  after  reflect- 
ing upon  her  ill-luck  about  a  week,  seemed  to  resolve 
to  try  a  different  system  of  tactics  and  to  throw  all 
appearances  of  concealment  aside.  She  built  a  nest 
a  few  yards  from  the  house  beside  the  drive,  upon  a 


THE  TRAGEDIES   OF   THE  NESTS.  77 

smooth  piece  of  greensward.  There  was  not  a  weed 
or  a  shrub  or  anything  whatever  to  conceal  it  or  mark 
its  site.  The  structure  was  completed  and  incubation 
had  begun  before  I  discovered  what  was  going  on. 
"Well,  well,"  I  said,  looking  down  upon  the  bird 
almost  at  my  feet,  "  this  is  going  to  the  other  extreme 
indeed  ;  now,  the  cats  will  have  you."  The  desper- 
ate little  bird  sat  there  day  after  day,  looking  like  a 
brown  leaf  pressed  down  hi  the  short  green  grass. 
As  the  weather  grew  hot,  her  position  became  very 
trying.  It  was  no  longer  a  question  of  keeping  the 
eggs  warm,  but  of  keeping  them  from  roasting.  The 
sun  had  no  mercy  on  her,  and  she  fairly  panted  in  the 
middle  of  the  day.  In  such  an  emergency  the  male 
robin  has  been  known  to  perch  above  the  sitting 
female  and  shade  her  with  his  outstretched  wings. 
But  in  this  case  there  was  no  perch  for  the  male  bird, 
had  he  been  disposed  to  make  a  sunshade  of  himself. 
I  thought  to  lend  a  hand  in  this  direction  myself, 
and  so  stuck  a  leafy  twig  beside  the  nest.  This  was 
probably  an  unwise  interference ;  it  guided  disaster 
to  the  spot ;  the  nest  was  broken  up,  and  the  mother- 
bird  was  probably  caught,  as  I  never  saw  her  after- 
ward. 

For  several  previous  summers  a  pair  of  kingbirds 
had  reared,  unmolested,  a  brood  of  young  in  an  ap- 
ple-tree, only  a  few  yards  from  the  house ;  but  dur- 
ing this  season  disaster  overtook  them  also.  The 
nest  was  completed,  the  eggs  laid,  and  incubation  had 
just  begun,  when,  one  morning  about  sunrise,  I  heard 


78  THE  TRAGEDIES  OF  THE  NESTS. 

loud  cries  of  distress  and  alarm  proceed  from  the  old 
apple-tree.  Looking  out  of  the  window  I  saw  a  crow, 
which  I  knew  to  be  a  fish-crow,  perched  upon  the 
edge  of  the  nest,  hastily  bolting  the  eggs.  The  parent 
birds,  usually  so  ready  for  the  attack,  seemed  over- 
come with  grief  and  alarm.  They  fluttered  about  in 
the  most  helpless  and  bewildered  manner,  and  it  was 
not  till  the  robber  fled  on  my  approach  that  they 
recovered  themselves  and  charged  upon  him.  The 
crow  scurried  away  with  upturned,  threatening  head, 
the  furious  kingbirds  fairly  upon  his  back.  The  pair 
lingered  around  their  desecrated  nest  for  several  days, 
almost  silent,  and  saddened  by  their  loss,  and  then 
disappeared.  They  probably  made  another  trial  else- 
where. 

The  fish-crow  only  fishes  when  it  has  destroyed 
all  the  eggs  and  young  birds  it  can  find.  It  is  the 
most  despicable  thief  and  robber  among  our  feathered 
creatures.  From  May  to  August  it  is  gorged  with  the 
fledgelings  of  the  nest.  It  is  fortunate  that  its  range 
is  so  limited.  In  size  it  is  smaller  than  the  common 
crow,  and  is  a  much  less  noble  and  dignified  bird. 
Its  caw  is  weak  and  feminine  —  a  sort  of  split  and 
abortive  caw,  that  stamps  it  the  sneak-thief  it  is.  This 
crow  is  common  farther  south,  but  is  not  found  in 
this  State,  so  far  as  I  have  observed,  except  in  the 
valley  of  the  Hudson. 

One  season  a  pair  of  them  built  a  nest  in  a  Norway 
spruce  that  stood  amid  a  dense  growth  of  other  or- 
namental trees  near  a  large  unoccupied  house.  They 


THE   TRAGEDIES  OF   THE  NESTS.  79 

sat  down  amid  plenty.  The  wolf  established  himself 
in  the  fold.  The  many  birds  —  robins,  thrushes, 
finches,  vireos,  pewees  —  that  seek  the  vicinity  of 
dwellings  (especially  of  these  large  country  residences 
with  their  many  trees  and  park-like  grounds),  for  the 
greater  safety  of  their  eggs  and  young,  were  the  easy 
and  convenient  victims  of  these  robbers.  They  plun- 
dered right  and  left,  and  were  not  disturbed  till  their 
young  were  nearly  fledged,  when  some  boys,  who 
had  long  before  marked  them  as  their  prize,  rifled 
the  nest. 

The  song-birds  nearly  all  build  low ;  *their  cradle 
is  not  upon  the  tree-top.  It  is  only  birds  of  prey 
that  fear  danger  from  below  more  than  from  above, 
and  that  seek  the  higher  branches  for  their  nests.  A 
line  five  feet  from  the  ground  would  run  above  more 
than  half  the  nests,  and  one  ten  feet  would  bound 
more  than  three  fourths  of  them.  It  is  only  the 
oriole  and  the  wood  pewee  that,  as  a  rule,  go  higher 
than  this.  The  crows  and  jays  and  other  enemies  of 
the  birds  have  learned  to  explore  this  belt  pretty 
thoroughly.  But  the  leaves  and  the  protective  color- 
ing of  most  nests  baffle  them  as  effectually,  no  doubt, 
as  they  do  the  professional  oologist.  The  nest  of  the 
red-eyed  vireo  is  one  of  the  most  artfully  placed  in 
the  wood.  It  is  just  beyond  the  point  where  the  eye 
naturally  pauses  in  its  search ;  namely,  on  the  extreme 
end  of  the  lowest  branch  of  the  tree,  usually  four  or 
five  feet  from  the  ground.  One  looks  up  and  down 
and  through  the  tree,  —  shoots  his  eye-beams  into  it 


80  THE  TRAGEDIES   OF  THE  NESTS. 

as  he  might  discharge  his  gun  at  some  game  hidden 
there,  but  the  drooping  tip  of  that  low  horizontal 
branch  —  who  would  think  of  pointing  his  piece  just 
there  ?  If  a  crow  or  other  marauder  were  to  alight 
upon  the  branch  or  upon  those  above  it,  the  nest 
would  be  screened  from  him  by  the  large  leaf  that 
usually  forms  a  canopy  immediately  above  it.  The 
nest-hunter,  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  tree  and  look- 
ing straight  before  him,  might  discover  it  easily,  were 
it  not  for  its  soft,  neutral  gray  tint  which  blends  so 
thoroughly  with  the  trunks  and  branches  of  trees. 
Indeed,  I  think  there  is  no  nest  in  the  woods  —  no 
arboreal  nest  —  so  well  concealed.  The  last  one  I 
saw  was  pendent  from  the  end  of  a  low  branch  of  a 
maple,  that  nearly  grazed  the  clapboards  of  an  un- 
used hay-barn  in  a  remote  backwoods  clearing.  I 
peeped  through  a  crack  and  saw  the  old  birds  feed 
th6  nearly  fledged  young  within  a  few  inches  of  my 
face.  And  yet  the  cow-bird  finds  this  nest  and  drops 
her  parasitical  egg  in  it.  Her  tactics  in  this  as  in 
other  cases  are  probably  to  watch  the  movements  of 
the  parent  bird.  She  may  often  be  seen  searching 
anxiously  through  the  trees  or  bushes  for  a  suitable 
nest,  yet  she  may  still  oftener  be  seen  perched  upon 
some  good  point  of  observation  watching  the  birds  as 
they  come  and  go  about  her.  There  is  no  doubt  that, 
in  many  cases,  the  cow-bird  makes  room  for  her  own 
illegitimate  egg  in  the  nest  by  removing  one  of  the 
bird's  own.  When  the  cow-bird  finds  two  or  more 
eggs  in  a  nest  in  which  she  wishes  to  deposit  her  own, 


THE   TRAGEDIES   OF  THE  NESTS.  81 

she  will  remove  one  of  them.  I  found  a  sparrow's 
nest  with  two  sparrow's  eggs  and  one  cow-bird's  egg, 
and  another  egg  lying  a  foot  or  so  below  it  on  the 
ground.  I  replaced  the  ejected  egg,  and  the  next  day 
found  it  again  removed,  and  another  cow-bird's  egg 
in  its  place ;  I  put  it  back  the  second  time,  when  it 
was  again  ejected,  or  destroyed,  for  I  failed  to  find 
it  anywhere.  Very  alert  and  sensitive  birds  like  the 
warblers  often  bury  the  strange  egg  beneath  a  second 
nest  built  on  top  of  the  old.  A  lady,  living  in  the 
suburbs  of  an  eastern  city,  one  morning  heard  cries 
of  distress  from  a  pair  of  house-wrens  that  had  a  nest 
in  a  honeysuckle  on  her  front  porch.  On  looking  out 
of  the  window,  she  beheld  this  little  comedy  —  com- 
edy from  her  point  of  view,  but  no  doubt  grim  trag- 
edy from  the  point  of  view  of  the  wrens  :  a  cow-bird 
with  a  wren's  egg  in  its  beak  running  rapidly  along 
the  walk,  with  the  outraged  wrens  forming  a  pro- 
cession behind  it,  screaming,  scolding,  and  gesticu- 
lating as  only  these  voluble  little  birds  can.  The 
cow-bird  had  probably  been  surprised  in  the  act  of 
violating  the  nest,  and  the  wrens  were  giving  her  a 
piece  of  their  minds. 

Every  cow-bird  is  reared  at  the  expense  of  two  or 
more  song-birds.  For  every  one  of  these  dusky  little 
pedestrians  there  amid  the  grazing  cattle  there  are 
two  or  more  sparrows,  or  vireos,  or  warblers,  the  less. 
It  is  a  big  price  to  pay  —  two  larks  for  a  bunting  — 
two  sovereigns  for  a  shilling ;  but  Nature  does  not 
hesitate  occasionally  to  contradict  herself  in  just  this 


82  THE   TRAGEDIES   OF   THE  NESTS. 

way.  The  young  of  the  cow-bird  is  disproportion- 
ately large  and  aggressive,  one  might  say  hoggish. 
When  disturbed  it  will  clasp  the  nest  and  scream  and 
snap  its  beak  threateningly.  One  hatched  out  in  a 
song-sparrow's  nest  which  was  under  my  observation, 
and  would  soon  have  overridden  and  overborne  the 
young  sparrow  which  came  out  of  the  shell  a  few 
hours  later,  had  I  not  interfered  from  time  to  time 
and  lent  the  young  sparrow  a  helping  hand.  Every 
day  I  would  visit  the  nest  and  take  the  sparrow  out 
from  under  the  pot-bellied  interloper  and  place  it  on 
top,  so  that  presently  it  was  able  to  hold  its  own 
against  its  enemy.  Both  birds  became  fledged  and 
left  the  nest  about  the  same  time.  Whether  the  race 
was  an  even  one  after  that  I  know  not. 

I  noted  but  two  warblers'  nests  during  that  season, 
one  of  the  black-throated  blue-back  and  one  of  the 
redstart,  —  the  latter  built  in  an  apple-tree  but  a  few 
yards  from  a  little  rustic  summer-house  where  I  idle 
away  many  summer  days.  The  lively  little  birds, 
darting  and  flashing  about,  attracted  my  attention  for 
a  week  before  I  discovered  their  nest.  They  prob- 
ably built  it  by  working  early  in  the  morning,  before 
I  appeared  upon  the  scene,  as  I  never  saw  them 
with  material  in  their  beaks.  Guessing  from  their 
movements  that  the  nest  was  in  a  large  maple  that 
stood  near  by,  I  climbed  the  tree  and  explored  it 
thoroughly,  looking  especially  in  the  forks  of  the 
branches,  as  the  authorities  say  these  birds  build  in  a 
fork.  But  no  nest  could  I  find.  Indeed,  how  can 


THE  TRAGEDIES  OF  THE  NESTS.      83 

one  by  searching  find  a  bird's  nest  ?  I  overshot  the 
mark  ;  the  nest  was  much  nearer  me,  almost  under 
my  very  nose,  and  I  discovered  it,  not  by  searching, 
but  by  a  casual  glance  of  the  eye,  while  thinking  of 
other  matters.  The  bird  was  just  settling  upon  it  as 
I  looked  up  from  my  book  and  caught  her  in  the  act. 
The  nest  was  built  near  the  end  of  a  long,  knotty, 
horizontal  branch  of  an  apple-tree,  but  effectually  hid- 
den by  the  grouping  of  the  leaves  ;  it  had  three  eggs, 
one  of  which  proved  to  be  barren.  The  two  young 
birds  grew  apace,  and  were  out  of  the  nest  early  in 
the  second  week ;  but  something  caught  one  of  them 
the  first  night.  The  other  probably  grew  to  maturity, 
as  it  disappeared  from  the  vicinity  with  its  parents 
after  some  days. 

The  blue-back's  nest  was  scarcely  a  foot  from  the 
ground,  in  a  little  bush  situated  in  a  low,  dense  wood 
of  hemlock  and  beech  and  maple  amid  the  Catskills, 
—  a  deep,  massive,  elaborate  structure,  in  which  the 
sitting  bird  sank  till  her  beak  and  tail  alone  were  visi- 
ble above  the  brim.  It  was  a  misty,  chilly  day  when 
I  chanced  to  find  the  nest,  and  the  mother-bird  knew 
instinctively  that  it  was  not  prudent  to  leave  her  four 
half  incubated  eggs  uncovered  and  exposed  for  a  mo- 
ment. When  I  sat  down  near  the  nest  she  grew  very 
uneasy,  and  after  trying  in  vain  to  decoy  me  away  by 
suddenly  dropping  from  the  branches  and  dragging 
herself  over  the  ground  as  if  mortally  wounded,  she 
approached  and  timidly  and  half  doubtingly  covered 
her  eggs  within  two  yards  of  where  I  sat.  I  dis- 


84  THE   TRAGEDIES   OF   THE   NESTS. 

turbed  her  several  times,  to  note  her  ways.  There 
came  to  be  something  almost  appealing  in  her  looks 
and  manner,  and  she  would  keep  her  place  on  her 
precious  eggs  till  my  outstretched  hand  was  within  a 
few  feet  of  her.  Finally,  I  covered  the  cavity  of  the 
nest  with  a  dry  leaf.  This  she  did  not  remove  with 
her  beak,  but  thrust  her  head  deftly  beneath  it  and 
shook  it  off  upon  the  ground.  Many  of  her  sympa- 
thizing neighbors,  attracted  by  her  alarm  note,  came 
and  had  a  peep  at  the  intruder  and  then  flew  away, 
but  the  male  bird  did  not  appear  upon  the  scene. 
The  final  history  of  this  nest  I  am  unable  to  give,  as 
I  did  not  again  visit  it  till  late  in  the  season,  when,  of 
course,  it  was  empty. 

Years  pass  without  my  finding  a  brown-thrasher's 
nest ;  it  is  not  a  nest  you  are  likely  to  stumble  upon 
in  your  walk  ;  it  is  hidden  as  a  miser  hides  his  gold 
and  watched  as  jealously.  The  male  pours  out  his 
rich  and  triumphant  song  from  the  tallest  tree  he  can 
find,  and  fairly  challenges  you  to  come  and  look  for 
his  treasures  in  his  vicinity.  But  you  will  not  find 
them  if  you  go.  The  nest  is  somewhere  on  the  outer 
circle  of  his  song ;  he  is  never  so  imprudent  as  to 
take  up  his  stand  very  near  it.  The  artists  who  draw 
those  cozy  little  pictures  of  a  brooding  mother-bird 
with  the  male  perched  but  a  yard  away  in  full  song, 
do  not  copy  from  nature.  The  thrasher's  nest  I  found 
was  thirty  or  forty  rods  from  the  point  where  the 
male  was  wont  to  indulge  in  his  brilliant  recitative. 
It  was  in  an  open  field  under  a  low  ground-juniper. 


THE   TRAGEDIES   OF   THE   NESTS.  85 

My  dog  disturbed  the  sitting  bird  as  I  was  passing 
near.  The  nest  could  be  seen  only  by  lifting  up  and 
parting  away  the  branches.  All  the  arts  of  conceal- 
ment had  been  carefully  studied.  It  was  the  last 
place  you  would  think  of  looking,  and,  if  you  did 
look,  nothing  was  visible  but  the  dense  green  circle 
of  the  low-spreading  juniper.  When  you  approached, 
the  bird  would  keep  her  place  till  you  had  begun  to 
stir  the  branches,  when  she  would  start  out,  and,  just 
skimming  the  ground,  make  a  bright  brown  line  to 
the  near  fence  and  bushes.  I  confidently  expected 
that  this  nest  would  escape  molestation,  but  it  did 
not.  Its  discovery  by  myself  and  dog  probably  opened 
the  door  for  ill  luck,  as  one  day,  not  long  afterward, 
when  I  peeped  in  upon  it,  it  was  empty.  The  proud 
song  of  the  male  had  ceased  from  his  accustomed 
tree,  and  the  pair  were  seen  no  more  in  that  vicinity. 
The  phcebe-bird  is  a  wise  architect,  and  perhaps 
enjoys  as  great  an  immunity  from  danger,  both  in  its 
person  and  its  nest,  as  any  other  bird.  Its  modest, 
ashen-gray  suit  is  the  color  of  the  rocks  where  it 
builds,  and  the  moss  of  which  it  makes  such  free  use 
gives  to  its  nest  the  look  of  a  natural  growth  or  ac- 
cretion. But  when  it  comes  into  the  barn  or  under 
the  shed  to  build,  as  it  so  frequently  does,  the  moss 
is  rather  out  of  place.  Doubtless  in  time  the  bird 
will  take  the  hint,  and  when  she  builds  in  such  places 
will  leave  the  moss  out.  I  noted  but  two  nests  the 
summer  I  am  speaking  of :  one  in  a  barn  failed  of 
issue,  on  account  of  the  rats,  I  suspect,  though  the 


86  THE  TRAGEDIES  OF  THE  NESTS. 

little  owl  may  have  been  the  depredator ;  the  other, 
in  the  woods,  sent  forth  three  young.  This  latter 
nest  was  most  charmingly  and  ingeniously  placed.  I 
discovered  it  while  in  quest  of  pond-lilies,  in  a  long, 
deep,  level  stretch  of  water  in  the  woods.  A  large 
tree  had  blown  over  at  the  edge  of  the  water,  and  its 
dense  mass  of  up-turned  roots,  with  the  black,  peaty 
soil  filling  the  interstices,  was  like  the  fragment  of  a 
wall  several  feet  high,  rising  from  the  edge  of  the 
languid  current.  In  a  niche  in  this  earthy  wall,  and 
visible  and  accessible  only  from  the  water,  a  phoebe 
had  built  her  nest  and  reared  her  brood.  I  paddled 
my  boat  up  and  came  alongside  prepared  to  take  the 
family  aboard.  The  young,  nearly  ready  to  fly,  were 
quite  undisturbed  by  my  presence,  having  probably 
been  assured  that  no  danger  need  be  apprehended 
from  that  side.  It  was  not  a  likely  place  for  minks, 
or  they  would  not  have  been  so  secure. 

I  noted  but  one  nest  of  the  wood  pewee,  and  that, 
too,  like  so  many  other  nests,  failed  of  issue.  It  was 
saddled  upon  a  small  dry  limb  of  a  plane-tree  that 
stood  by  the  roadside,  about  forty  feet  from  the 
ground.  Every  day  for  nearly  a  week  as  I  passed 
by  I  saw  the  sitting  bird  upon  the  nest.  Then  one 
morning  she  was  not  in  her  place,  and  on  examination 
the  nest  proved  to  be  empty  —  robbed,  I  had  no 
doubt,  by  the  red  squirrels,  as  they  were  very  abun- 
dant in  its  vicinity,  and  appeared  to  make  a  clean 
sweep  of  every  nest.  The  wood  pewee  builds  an  ex- 
quisite nest,  shaped  and  finished  as  if  cast  in  a  mould. 


THE  TRAGEDIES   OF  THE  NESTS.  87 

It  is  modeled  without  and  within  with  equal  neatness 
and  art,  like  the  nest  of  the  humming-bird  and  the 
little  gray  gnat-catcher.  The  material  is  much  more 
refractory  than  that  used  by  either  of  these  birds, 
being,  in  the  present  case,  dry,  fine  cedar  twigs  ;  but 
these  were  bound  into  a  shape  as  rounded  and  com- 
pact as  could  be  moulded  out  of  the  most  plastic  ma- 
terial. Indeed,  the  nest  of  this  bird  looks  precisely 
like  a  large,  lichen-covered,  cup-shaped  excrescence 
of  the  limb  upon  which  it  is  placed.  And  the  bird, 
while  sitting,  seems  entirely  at  her  ease.  Most  birds 
seem  to  make  very  hard  work  of  incubation.  It  is  a 
kind  of  martyrdom  which  appears  to  tax  all  their 
powers  of  endurance.  They  have  such  a  fixed,  rigid, 
predetermined  look,  pressed  down  into  the  nest  and 
as  motionless  as  if  made  of  cast-iron.  But  the  wood 
pewee  is  an  exception.  She  is  largely  visible  above 
the  rim  of  the  nest.  Her  attitude  is  easy  and  grace- 
ful ;  she  moves  her  head  this  way  and  that,  and  seems 
to  take  note  of  whatever  goes  on  about  her  ;  and  if 
her  neighbor  were  to  drop  in  for  a  little  social  chat, 
she  could  doubtless  do  her  part.  In  fact,  she  makes 
light  and  easy  work  of  what,  to  most  other  birds,  is 
such  a  serious  and  engrossing  matter.  If  it  does  not 
look  like  play  with  her,  it  at  least  looks  like  leisure 
and  quiet  contemplation. 

There  is  no  nest-builder  that  suffers  more  from 
crows  and  squirrels  and  other  enemies  than  the 
wood-thrush.  It  builds  as  openly  and  unsuspiciously 
as  if  it  thought  all  the  world  as  honest  as  itself.  Its 


88  THE   TRAGEDIES   OF   THE  NESTS. 

favorite  place  is  the  fork  of  a  sapling,  eight  or  ten 
feet  from  the  ground,  where  it  falls  an  easy  prey  to 
every  nest-robber  that  comes  prowling  through  the 
woods  and  groves.  It  is  not  a  bird  that  skulks  and 
hides,  like  the  cat-bird,  the  brown-thrasher,  the  chat, 
or  the  cheewink,  and  its  nest  is  not  concealed  with  the 
same  art  as  theirs.  Our  thrushes  are  all  frank,  open- 
mannered  birds  ;  but  the  veery  and  the  hermit  build 
upon  the  ground,  where  they  at  least  escape  the  crows, 
owls,  and  jays,  and  stand  a  better  chance  to  be  over- 
looked by  the  red  squirrel  and  weasel  also ;  while  the 
robin  seeks  the  protection  of  dwellings  and  out-build- 
ings. For  years  I  have  not  known  the  nest  of  a  wood- 
thrush  to  succeed.  During  the  season  referred  to  I 
observed  but  two,  both  apparently  a  second  attempt, 
as  the  season  was  well  advanced,  and  both  failures. 
In  one  case,  the  nest  was  placed  in  a  branch  that  an 
apple-tree,  standing  near  a  dwelling,  held  out  over  the 
highway.  The  structure  was  barely  ten  feet  above  the 
middle  of  the  road,  and  would  just  escape  a  passing 
load  of  hay.  It  was  made  conspicuous  by  the  use  of  a 
large  fragment  of  newspaper  in  its  foundation  —  an 
unsafe  material  to  build  upon  in  most  cases.  What- 
ever else  the  press  may  guard,  this  particular  news- 
paper did  not  guard  this  nest  from  harm.  It  saw  the 
egg  and  probably  the  chick,  but  not  the  fledgeling.  A 
murderous  deed  was  committed  above  the  public  high- 
way, but  whether  in  the  open  day  or  under  cover  of 
darkness  I  have  no  means  of  knowing.  The  frisky 
red  squirrel  was  doubtless  the  culprit.  The  other 


J    \ 


THE  TRAGEDIES  OF  THE  NEST37"  89 

nest  was  in  a  maple  sapling,  within  a  few  yards  of  the 
little  rustic  summer-house  already  referred  to.  The 
first  attempt  of  the  season,  I  suspect,  had  failed  in  a 
more  secluded  place  under  the  hill  ;  so  the  pair  had 
come  up  nearer  the  house  for  protection.  The  male 
sang  in  the  trees  near  by  for  several  days  before  I 
chanced  to  see  the  nest.  The  very  morning  I  think 
it  was  finished,  I  saw  a  red  squirrel  exploring  a  tree 
but  a  few  yards  away  ;  he  probably  knew  what  the 
singing  meant  as  well  as  I  did.  I  did  not  see  the  in- 
side of  the  nest,  for  it  was  almost  instantly  deserted, 
the  female  having  probably  laid  a  single  egg,  which 
the  squirrel  had  devoured. 

If  I  were  a  bird,  in  building  my  nest  I  should  fol- 
low the  example  of  the  bobolink,  placing  it  in  the 
midst  of  a  broad  meadow,  where  there  was  no  spear 
of  grass,  or  flower,  or  growth  unlike  another  to  mark 
its  site.  I  judge  that  the  bobolink  escapes  the  dan- 
gers to  which  I  have  adverted  as  few  or  no  other  birds 
do.  Unless  the  mowers  come  along  at  an  earlier  date 
than  she  has  anticipated,  that  is,  before  July  1st,  or 
a  skunk  goes  nosing  through  the  grass,  which  is  un- 
usual, she  is  as  safe  as  bird  well  can  be  in  the  great 
open  of  nature.  She  selects  the  most  monotonous  and 
uniform  place  she  can  find  amid  the  daisies  or  the  tim- 
othy and  clover,  and  places  her  simple  structure  upon 
the  ground  in  the  midst  of  it.  There  is  no  conceal- 
ment, except  as  the  great  conceals  the  little,  as  the 
desert  conceals  the  pebble,  as  the  myriad  conceals  the 
unit.  You  may  find  the  nest  once,  if  your  course 


90  THE  TRAGEDIES  OF  THE  NESTS. 

chances  to  lead  you  across  it  and  your  eye  is  quick 
enough  to  note  the  silent  brown  bird  as  she  darts 
swiftly  away ;  but  step  three  paces  in  the  wrong  di- 
rection, and  your  search  will  probably  be  fruitless. 
My  friend  and  I  found  a  nest  by  accident  one  day, 
and  then  lost  it  again  one  minute  afterward.  I 
moved  away  a  few  yards  to  be  sure  of  the  mother- 
bird,  charging  my  friend  not  to  stir  from  his  tracks. 
When  I  returned,  he  had  moved  two  paces,  he  said, 
(he  had  really  moved  four),  and  we  spent  a  half  hour 
stooping  over  the  daisies  and  the  buttercups,  looking 
for  the  lost  clew.  We  grew  desperate,  and  fairly  felt 
the  ground  over  with  our  hands,  but  without  avail. 
I  marked  the  spot  with  a  bush,  and  came  the  next 
day,  and,  with  the  bush  as  a  centre,  moved  about  it  in 
slowly  increasing  circles,  covering,  I  thought,  nearly 
every  inch  of  ground  with  my  feet,  and  laying  hold 
of  it  with  all  the  visual  power  I  could  command,  till 
my  patience  was  exhausted,  and  I  gave  up,  baffled. 
I  began  to  doubt  the  ability  of  the  parent  birds  them- 
selves to  find  it,  and  so  secreted  myself  and  watched. 
After  much  delay,  the  male  bird  appeared  with  food 
in  his  beak,  and  satisfying  himself  that  the  coast  was 
clear,  dropped  into  the  grass  which  I  had  trodden 
down  in  my  search.  Fastening  my  eye  upon  a  par- 
ticular meadow-lily,  I  walked  straight  to  the  spot,  bent 
down,  and  gazed  long  and  intently  into  the  grass. 
Finally  my  eye  separated  the  nest  and  its  young 
from  its  surroundings.  My  foot  had  barely  missed 
them  in  my  search,  but  by  how  much  they  had  escaped 


THE  TRAGEDIES  OF  THE  NESTS.  91 

my  eye  I  could  not  tell.  Probably  not  by  distance  at 
all,  but  simply  by  unrecognition.  They  were  virtually 
invisible.  The  dark  gray  and  yellowish  brown  dry 
grass  and  stubble  of  the  meadow-bottom  were  exactly 
copied  in  the  color  of  the  half-fledged  young.  More 
than  that,  they  hugged  the  nest  so  closely  and  formed 
such  a  compact  mass,  that  though  there  were  five  of 
them,  they  preserved  the  unit  of  expression,  —  no 
single  head  or  form  was  defined ;  they  were  one,  and 
that  one  was  without  shape  or  color,  and  not  sepa- 
rable, except  by  closest  scrutiny,  from  the  one  of  the 
meadow-bottom.  That  nest  prospered,  as  bobolinks' 
nests  doubtless  generally  do ;  for,  notwithstanding  the 
enormous  slaughter  of  the  birds  during  their  fall  mi- 
grations by  Southern  sportsmen,  the  bobolink  appears 
to  hold  its  own,  and  its  music  does  not  diminish  in  our 
Northern  meadows. 

Birds  with  whom  the  struggle  for  life  is  the  sharpest 
seem  to  be  more  prolific  than  those  whose  nest  and 
young  are  exposed  to  fewer  dangers.  The  robin,  the 
sparrow,  the  pewee,  etc.,  will  rear,  or  make  the  at- 
tempt to  rear,  two  and  sometimes  three  broods  in  a 
season  ;  but  the  bobolink,  the  oriole,  the  kingbird,  the 
goldfinch,  the  cedar-bird,  the  birds  of  prey,  and  the 
woodpeckers,  that  build  in  safe  retreats  in  the  trunks 
of  trees,  have  usually  but  a  single  brood.  If  the  bob- 
olink reared  two  broods,  our  meadows  would  swarm 
with  them. 

I  noted  three  nests  of  the  cedar-bird  in  August  in 
a  single  orchard,  all  productive,  but  all  with  one  or 


92      THE  TRAGEDIES  OF  THE  NESTS. 

more  unfruitful  eggs  in  them.  The  cedar-bird  is  the 
most  silent  of  our  birds,  having  but  a  single  fine  note, 
so  far  as  I  have  observed,  but  its  manners  are  very 
expressive  at  times.  No  bird  known  to  me  is  ca- 
pable of  expressing  so  much  silent  alarm  while  on 
the  nest  as  this  bird.  As  you  ascend  the  tree  and 
draw  near  it,  it  depresses  its  plumage  and  crest, 
stretches  up  its  neck,  and  becomes  the  very  picture 
of  fear.  Other  birds,  under  like  circumstances,  hardly 
change  their  expression  at  all  till  they  launch  into  the 
air,  when  by  their  voice  they  express  anger  rather 
than  alarm. 

I  have  referred  to  the  red  squirrel  as  a  destroyer 
of  the  eggs  and  young  of  birds.  I  think  the  mischief 
it  does  in  this  respect  can  hardly  be  overestimated. 
Nearly  all  birds  look  upon  it  as  their  enemy,  and  at- 
tack and  annoy  it  when  it  appears  near  their  breed- 
ing haunts.  Thus,  I  have  seen  the  pewee,  the  cuckoo, 
the  robin,  and  the  wood-thrush  pursuing  it  with  angry 
voice  and  gestures.  A  friend  of  mine  saw  a  pair  of 
robins  attack  one  in  the  top  of  a  tall  tree  so  vigor- 
ously that  they  caused  it  to  lose  its  hold,  when  it  fell 
to  the  ground,  and  was  so  stunned  by  the  blow  as  to 
allow  him  to  pick  it  up.  If  you  wish  the  birds  to 
breed  and  thrive  in  your  orchard  and  groves,  kill 
every  red  squirrel  that  infests  the  place ;  kill  every 
weasel  also.  The  weasel  is  a  subtle  and  arch  enemy 
of  the  birds.  -  It  climbs  trees  and  explores  them  with 
great  ease  and  nimbleness.  I  have  seen  it  do  so  on 
several  occasions.  One  day  my  attention  was  ar- 


THE   TRAGEDIES   OF   THE  NESTS.  93 

rested  by  the  angry  notes  of  a  pair  of  brown-thrash- 
ers that  were  flitting  from  bush  to  bush  along  an  old 
stone  row  in  a  remote  field.  Presently  I  saw  what  it 
was  that  excited  them  —  three  large  red  weasels,  or 
ermines  coming  along  the  stone  wall,  and  leisurely  and 
half  playfully  exploring  every  tree  that  stood  near  it. 
They  had  probably  robbed  the  thrashers.  They  would 
go  up  the  trees  with  great  ease,  and  glide  serpent-like 
out  upon  the  main  branches.  When  they  descended 
the  tree  they  were  unable  to  come  straight  down,  like 
a  squirrel,  but  went  around  it  spirally.  How  boldly 
they  thrust  their  heads  out  of  the  wall,  and  eyed  me 
and  sniffed  me,  as  I  drew  near,  —  their  round,  thin 
ears,  their  prominent,  glistening,  bead-like  eyes,  and 
the  curving,  snake-like  motions  of  the  head  and  neck 
being  very-noticeable.  They  looked  like  blood-suckers 
and  egg-suckers.  They  suggested  something  extremely 
remorseless  and  cruel.  One  could  understand  the 
alarm  of  the  rats  when  they  discover  one  of  these 
fearless,  subtle,  and  circumventing  creatures  thread- 
ing their  holes.  To  flee  must  be  like  trying  to  escape 
death  itself.  I  was  one  day  standing  in  the  woods 
upon  a  flat  stone,  in  what  at  certain  seasons  was  the 
bed  of  a  stream,  when  one  of  these  weasels  came  un- 
dulating along  and  ran  under  the  stone  upon  which  I 
was  standing.  As  I  remained  motionless,  he  thrust 
out  his  wedge-shaped  head,  and  turned  it  back  above 
the  stone  as  if  half  in  mind  to  seize  my  foot ;  then  he 
drew  back,  and  presently  went  his  way.  These  wea- 
sels often  hunt  in  packs  like  the  British  stoat.  When 


94  THE  TRAGEDIES  OF  THE  NESTS. 

I  was  a  boy,  my  father  one  day  armed  me  with  an  old 
musket  and  sent  me  to  shoot  chipmunks  around  the 
corn.  While  watching  the  squirrels,  a  troop  of  wea- 
sels tried  to  cross  a  bar-way  where  I  sat,  and  were  so 
bent  on  doing  it  that  I  fired  at  them,  boy-like,  simply 
to  thwart  their  purpose.  One  of  the  weasels  was  dis- 
abled by  my  shot,  but  the  troop  was  not  discouraged, 
and,  after  making  several  feints  to  cross,  one  of  them 
seized  the  wounded  one  and  bore  it  over,  and  the 
pack  disappeared  in  the  wall  on  the  other  side. 

Let  me  conclude  this  chapter  with  two  or  three 
more  notes  about  this  alert  enemy  of  the  birds  and 
lesser  animals,  the  weasel. 

A  farmer  one  day  hearcl  a  queer  growling  sound  in 
the  grass ;  on  approaching  the  spot  he  saw  two  weasels 
contending  over  a  mouse ;  each  had  hold  of  the  mouse 
pulling  in  opposite  directions,  and  were  so  absorbed  in 
the  struggle  that  the  farmer  cautiously  put  his  hands 
down  and  grabbed  them  both  by  the  back  of  the  neck. 
He  put  them  in  a  cage,  and  offered  them  bread  and 
other  food.  This  they  refused  to  eat,  but  in  a  few  days 
one  of  them  had  eaten  the  other  up,  picking  his  bones 
clean  and  leaving  nothing  but  the  skeleton. 

The  same  farmer  was  one  day  in  his  cellar  when 
two  rats  came  out  of  a  hole  near  him  in  great  haste, 
and  ran  up  the  cellar  wall  and  along  its  top  till  they 
came  to  a  floor  timber  that  stopped  their  progress, 
when  they  turned  at  bay,  and  looked  excitedly  back 
along  the  course  they  had  come.  In  a  moment  a  wea- 
sel, evidently  in  hot  pursuit  of  them,  came  out  of  the 


THE  TRAGEDIES   OF   THE  NESTS.  95 

hole,  and  seeing  the  farmer,  checked  his  course  and 
darted  back.  The  rats  had  doubtless  turned  to  give 
him  fight,  and  would  probably  have  been  a  match  for 
him. 

The  weasel  seems  to  track  its  game  by  scent.  A 
hunter  of  my  acquaintance  was  one  day  sitting  in  the 
woods,  when  he  saw  a  red  squirrel  run  with  great 
speed  up  a  tree  near  him,  and  out  upon  a  long  branch, 
from  which  he  leaped  to  some  rocks,  and  disappeared 
beneath  them.  In  a  moment  a  weasel  came  in  full 
course  upon  his  trail,  ran  up  the  tree,  then  out  along 
the  branch,  from  the  end  of  which  he  leaped  to  the 
rocks  as  the  squirrel  did,  and  plunged  beneath  them. 

Doubtless  the  squirrel  fell  a  prey  to  him.  The 
squirrel's  best  game  would  have  been  to  have  kept  to 
the  higher  tree-tops,  where  he  could  easily  have  dis- 
tanced the  weasel.  But  beneath  the  rocks  he  stood  a 
very  poor  chance.  I  have  often  wondered  what  keeps 
such  an  animal  as  the  weasel  in  check,  for  they  are 
quite  rare.  They  never  need  go  hungry,  for  rats  and 
squirrels  and  mice  and  birds  are  everywhere.  They 
probably  do  not  fall  a  prey  to  any  other  animal,  and 
very  rarely  to  man.  But  the  circumstances  or  agen- 
cies that  check  the  increase  of  any  species  of  animal 
or  bird  are,  as  Darwin  says,  very  obscure  and  but 
little  known. 


SNOW-STORM. 


A  SNOW-STORM. 

THAT  is  a  striking  line  with  which  Emerson  opens 
his  beautiful  poem  of  the  Snow-storm  :  — 

"  Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
Arrives  the  snow,  and,  driving  o'er  the  fields, 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight," 

One  seems  to  see  the  clouds  puffing  their  cheeks  as 
they  sound  the  charge  of  their  white  legions.  But 
the  line  is  more  accurately  descriptive  of  a  rain- 
storm, as,  in  both  summer  and  winter,  rain  is  usually 
preceded  by  wind.  Homer,  describing  a  snow-storm 
in  his  time,  says  :  — 

"  The  winds  are  lulled." 

The  preparations  of  a  snow-storm  are,  as  a  rule,  gen- 
tle and  quiet;  a  marked  hush  pervades  both  the 
earth  and  the  sky.  The  movements  of  the  celestial 
forces  are  muffled,  as  if  the  snow  already  paved  the 
way  of  their  coming.  There  is  no  uproar,  no  clash- 
ing of  arms,  no  blowing  of  wind  trumpets.  These 
soft,  feathery,  exquisite  crystals  are  formed  as  if  in 
the  silence  and  privacy  of  the  inner  cloud-chambers. 
Rude  winds  would  break  the  spell  and  mar  the  pro- 
cess. The  clouds  are  smoother,  and  slower  in  their 
movements,  with  less  definite  outlines  than  those  which 


100  A  SNOW-STORM. 

bring  rain.  In  fact,  everything  is  prophetic  of  the 
gentle  and  noiseless  meteor  that  is  approaching,  and 
of  the  stillness  that  is  to  succeed  it,  when  "  all  the 
batteries  of  sound  are  spiked,"  as  Lowell  says,  and 
"  we  see  the  movements  of  life  as  a  deaf  man  sees  it 
—  a  mere  wraith  of  the  clamorous  existence  that  in- 
flicts itself  on  our  ears  when  the  ground  is  bare.'] 
After  the  storm  is  fairly  launched  the  winds  not  in- 
frequently awake,  and,  seeing  their  opportunity,  pipe 
the  flakes  a  lively  dance. ^  I  am  speaking  now  of  the 
typical,  full-born  midwinter  storm  that  comes  to  us 
from  the  North  or  N.  N.  E.,  and  that  piles  the  land- 
scape knee-deep  with  snow.  Such  a  storm  once  came 
to  us  the  last  day  of  January  —  the  master-storm  of 
the  winter.  Previous  to  that  date  we  had  had  but  light 
snow.  The  spruces  had  been  able  to  catch  it  all  upon 
their  arms  and  keep  a  circle  of  bare  ground  beneath 
them  where  the  birds  scratched.  But  the  day  fol- 
lowing this  fall  they  stood  with  their  lower  branches 
completely  buried.  If  the  Old  Man  of  the  North 
had  but  sent  us  his  couriers  and  errand-boys  before, 
the  old  gray-beard  appeared  himself  at  our  doors  on 
this  occasion,  and  we  were  all  his  subjects.  His  flag 
was  upon  every  tree  and  roof,  his  seal  upon  every 
door  and  window,  and  his  embargo  upon  every  path 
and  highway.  He  slipped  down  upon  us,  too,  under 
the  cover  of  such  a  bright,  seraphic  day,  —  a  day  that 
disarmed  suspicion  with  all  but  the  wise  ones,  a  day 
without  a  cloud  or  a  film,  a  gentle  breeze  from  the 
west,  a  dry,  bracing  air,  a  blazing  sun  that  brought 


A   SNOW-STORM.  101 

out  the  bare  ground  under  the  lee  of  the  fences  and 
farm  buildings,  and  at  night  a  spotless  moon  near  her 
full.  The  next  morning  the  sky  reddened  in  the 
east,  then  became  gray,  heavy,  and  silent.  A  seam- 
less cloud  covered  it.  The  smoke  from  the  chim- 
neys went  up  with  a  barely  perceptible  slant  toward 
the  north.  In  the  forenoon  the  cedar-birds,  purple- 
finches,  yellow-birds,  nut-hatches,  bluebirds,  were  in 
flocks,  or  in  couples  and  trios  about  the  trees,  more  or 
less  noisy  and  loquacious.  About  noon  a  thin,  white 
veil  began  to  blur  the  distant  southern  mountains. 
It  was  like  a  white  dream  slowly  descending  upon 
them.  The  first  flake  or  flakelet  that  reached  me 
was  a  mere  white  speck  that  came  idly  circling  and 
eddying  to  the  ground.  I  could  not  see  it  after  it 
alighted.  It  might  have  been  a  scale  from  the 
feather  of  some  passing  bird,  or  a  larger  mote  in  the 
air  that  the  stillness  was  allowing  to  settle.  Yet  it 
was  the  altogether  inaudible  and  infinitesimal  trum- 
peter that  announced  the  coming  storm,  the  grain  of 
sand  that  heralded  the  desert.  Presently  another  fell, 
then  another ;  the  white  mist  was  creeping  up  the 
river  valley.  How  slowly  and  loiteringly  it  came, 
and  how  microscopic  its  first  sittings ! 

This  mill  is  bolting  its  flour  very  fine,  you  think. 
But  wait  a  little  ;  it  gets  coarser  by  and  by ;  you 
begin  to  see  the  flakes ;  they  increase  in  numbers  and 
in  size,  and  before  one  o'clock  it  is  snowing  steadily. 
The  flakes  come  straight  down,  but  in  a  half-hour 
they  have  a  marked  slant  toward  the  north ;  the  wind 


102  A  SNOW-STORM. 

is  taking  a  hand  in  the  game.  By  mid-afternoon  the 
storm  is  coming  in  regular  pulse-beats  or  in  vertical 
waves.  The  wind  is  not  strong,  but  seems  steady ; 
the  pines  hum,  yet  there  is  a  sort  of  rhythmic  throb 
in  the  meteor ;  the  air  toward  the  wind  looks  ribbed 
with  steady-moving  vertical  waves  of  snow.  The  im- 
pulses travel  along  like  undulations  in  a  vast  sus- 
pended white  curtain,  imparted  by  some  invisible 
hand  there  in  the  northeast.  As  the  day  declines 
the  storm  waxes,  the  wind  increases,  the  suow-fall 
thickens,  and 

"  The  housemates  sit 
Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  inclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm." 

A  privacy  which  you  feel  outside  as  well  as  in.  Out- 
of-doors  you  seem  in  a  vast  tent  of  snow ;  the  distance 
is  shut  out,  near-by  objects  are  hidden;  there  are  white 
curtains  above  you  and  white  screens  about  you,  and 
you  feel  housed  and  secluded  in  storm.  Your  friend 
leaves  your  door  and  he  is  wrapped  away  in  white 
obscurity,  caught  up  in  a  cloud,  and  his  footsteps  are 
obliterated.  Travelers  meet  on  the  road  and  do  not 
see  or  hear  each  other  till  they  are  face  to  face.  The 
passing  train,  half  a  mile  away,  gives  forth  a  mere 
wraith  of  sound.  Its  whistle  is  deadened  as  in  a 
dense  wood. 

Still  the  storm  rose.  At  five  o'clock  I  went  forth 
to  face  it  in  a  two-mile  walk.  It  was  exhilarating 
in  the  extreme.  The  snow  was  lighter  than  chaff. 
It  had  been  dried  in  the  Arctic  ovens  to  the  last  de- 


A  SNOW-STORM.  103 

gree.  The  foot  sped  through  it  without  hindrance. 
I  fancied  the  grouse  and  quails  quietly  sitting  down 
in  the  open  places,  and  letting  it  drift  over  them. 
With  head  under  wing  and  wing  snugly  folded  they 
would  he  softly  and  tenderly  buried  in  a  few  mo- 
ments. The  mice  and  the  squirrels  were  in  their 
dens,  but  I  fancied  the  fox  asleep  upon  some  rock  or 
log,  and  allowing  the  flakes  to  cover  him.  The  hare 
in  her  form,  too,  was  being  warmly  sepulchred  with 
the  rest.  I  thought  of  the  young  cattle  and  the  sheep 
huddled  together  on  the  lee  side  of  a  haystack  in 
some  remote  field,  all  enveloped  in  mantles  of  white. 

"  I  thought  me  on  the  ourie  cattle, 
Or  silly  sheep,  wha  bide  this  brattle 

O*  wintry  war, 
Or  thro'  the  drift,  deep-lairing  sprattle, 

Beneath  a  scaur. 

"  Ilk  happing  bird,  wee  helpless  thing, 
That  in  the  merry  months  o'  spring 
Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing, 

What  comes  o'  thee? 
Where  wilt  thou  cow'r  thy  chittering  wing, 

And  close  thy  ee?  " 

As  I  passed  the  creek  I  noticed  the  white  woolly 
masses  that  filled  the  water.  It  was  as  if  somebody 
up  stream  had  been  washing  his  sheep  and  the  water 
had  carried  away  all  the  wool,  and  I  thought  of  the 
Psalmist's  phrase,  "  He  giveth  snow  like  wool."  On 
the  river  a  heavy  fall  of  snow  simulates  a  thin  layer 
of  cotton  batting.  The  tide  drifts  it  along,  and  where 
it  meets  with  an  obstruction  along  shore,  it  folds  up 


104  A  SNOW-STORM. 

and  becomes  wrinkled  or  convoluted  like  a  fabric,  or 
like  cotton  sheeting.  Attempt  to  row  a  boat  through 
it,  and  it  seems  indeed  like  cotton  or  wool,  every 
fibre  of  which  resists  your  progress. 

As  the  sun  went  down  and  darkness  fell,  the  storm 
impulse  reached  its  full.  It  became  a  wild  conflagra- 
tion of  wind  and  snow ;  the  world  was  wrapt  in  frost 
flame ;  it  enveloped  one,  and  penetrated  his  lungs 
and  caught  away  his  breath  like  a  blast  from  a  burn- 
ing city.  How  it  whipped  around  and  under  every 
cover  and  searched  out  every  crack  and  crevice,  sift- 
ing under  the  shingles  in  the  attic,  darting  its  white 
tongue  under  the  kitchen  door,  puffing  its  breath 
down  the  chimney,  roaring  through  the  woods,  stalk- 
ing like  a  sheeted  ghost  across  the  hills,  bending  in 
white  and  ever  changing  forms  above  the  fences, 
sweeping  across  the  plains,  whirling  in  eddies  behind 
the  buildings,  or  leaping  spitefully  up  their  walls  — 
in  short,  taking  the  world  entirely  to  itself  and  giving 
a  loose  rein  to  its  desire. 

But  in  the  morning,  behold !  the  world  was  not  con- 
sumed ;  it  was  not  the  besom  of  destruction,  after  all, 
but  the  gentle  hand  of  mercy.  How  deeply  and 
warmly  and  spotlessly  Earth's  nakedness  is  clothed  ! 
—  the  "  wool "  of  the  Psalmist  nearly  two  feet  deep. 
And  as  far  as  warmth  and  protection  are  concerned, 
there  is  a  good  deal  of  the  virtue  of  wool  in  such  a 
snow-fall.  How  it  protects  the  grass,  the  plants,  the 
roots  of  the  trees,  and  the  worms,  insects,  and  smaller 
animals  in  the  ground !  It  is  a  veritable  fleece, 


A  SNOW-STORM.  105 

beneath  which  the  shivering  earth  ("  the  frozen  hills 
ached  with  pain,"  says  one  of  our  young  poets)  is 
restored  to  warmth.  When  the  temperature  .of  the 
air  is  at  zero,  the  thermometer,  placed  at  the  surface 
of  the  ground  beneath  a  foot  and  a  half  of  snow, 
would  probably  indicate  but  a  few  degrees  below 
freezing ;  the  snow  is  rendered  such  a  perfect  non- 
conductor of  heat  mainly  by  reason  of  the  quantity 
of  air  that  is  caught  and  retained  between  the  crys- 
tals. Then  how,  like  a  fleece  of  wool,  it  rounds  and 
fills  out  the  landscape,  and  makes  the  leanest  and  most 
angular  field  look  smooth. 

The  day  dawned  and  continued  as  innocent  and 
fair  as  the  day  which  had  preceded  —  two  mountain- 
peaks  of  sky  and  sun,  with  their  valley  of  cloud  and 
snow  between.  Walk  to  the  nearest  spring  run  on 
such  a  morning,  and  you  can  see  the  Colorado  valley 
and  the  great  canons  of  the  West  in  miniature, 
carved  in  alabaster.  In  the  midst  of  the  plain  of 
snow  lie  these  chasms ;  the  vertical  walls,  the  bold 
headlands,  the  turrets  and  spires  and  obelisks,  the 
rounded  and  towering  capes,  the  carved  and  but- 
tressed precipices,  the  branch  valleys  and  canons,  and 
the  winding  and  tortuous  course  of  the  main  channel 
are  all  here  —  all  that  the  Yosemite  or  Yellowstone 
have  to  show,  except  the  terraces  and  the  cascades. 
Sometimes  my  canon  is  bridged,  and  one's  fancy  runs 
nimbly  across  a  vast  arch  of  Parian  marble,  and  that 
makes  up  for  the  falls  and  the  terraces.  Where  the 
ground  is  marshy  I  come  upon  a  pretty  and  vivid 


106  A  SNOW-STORM. 

illustration  of  what  I  have  read  and  been  told  of  the 
Florida  formation.  This  white  and  brittle  limestone 
is  undermined  by  water.  Here  are  the  dimples  and 
depressions,  the  sinks  and  the  wells,  the  springs  and 
the  lakes.  Some  places  a  mouse  might  break  through 
the  surface  and  reveal  the  water  far  beneath,  or  the 
snow  gives  way  of  its  own  weight  and  you  have  a 
minute  Florida  well,  with  the  truncated  cone-shape 
and  all.  The  arched  and  subterranean  pools  and 
passages  are  there  likewise. 

But  there  is  a  more  beautiful  and  fundamental 
geology  than  this  in  the  snow-storm :  we  are  admitted 
into  nature's  oldest  laboratory  and  see  the  working 
of  the  law  by  which  the  foundations  of  the  material 
universe  were  laid,  —  the  law  or  mystery  of  crystal- 
lization. The  earth  is  built  upon  crystals ;  the  gran- 
ite rock  is  only  a  denser  and  more  compact  snow,  or 
a  kind  of  ice  that  was  vapor  once  and  may  be  vapor 
again.  "  Every  stone  is  nothing  else  but  a  congealed 
lump  of  frozen  earth,"  says  Plutarch.  By  cold  and 
pressure  air  can  be  liquefied,  perhaps  solidified.  A 
little  more  time,  a  little  more  heat,  and  the  hills  are 
but  April  snow-banks.  Nature  has  but  two  forms : 
the  cell  and  the  crystal  —  the  crystal  first,  the  cell  last. 
All  organic  nature  is  built  up  of  the  cell;  all  inor- 
ganic of  the  crystal.  Cell  upon  cell  rises  the  vegetable, 
rises  the  animal;  crystal  wedded  to  and  compacted 
with  crystal  stretches  the  earth  beneath  them.  See 
in  the  falling  snow  the  old  cooling  and  precipitation, 
and  the  shooting,  radiating  forms,  that  are  the  ar- 
chitects of  planet  and  globe. 


A  SNOW-&OBM.  107 

We  love  the  sight  of  the  brown  and  ruddy  earth ; 
it  is  the  color  of  life,  while  a  snow-covered  plain  is 
the  face  of  death ;  yet  snow  is  but  the  mask  of  the 
life-giving  rain ;  it,  too,  is  the  friend  of  man  —  the 
tender,  sculpturesque,  immaculate,  warming,  fertiliz- 
ing snow. 


A  TASTE  OF  MAINE  BIKCH. 


A  TASTE  OF  MAINE  BIRCH. 

THE  traveler  and  camper-out  in  Maine,  unless  he 
penetrates  its  more  northern  portions,  has  less  reason 
to  remember  it  as  a  pine-tree  State  than  a  birch-tree 
State.  The  white-pine  forests  have  melted  away  like 
snow  in  the  spring  and  gone  down  stream,  leaving 
only  patches  here  and  there  in  the  more  remote  and 
inaccessible  parts.  The  portion  of  the  State  I  saw  — 
the  valley  of  the  Kennebec  and  the  woods  about 
Moxie  Lake  —  had  been  shorn  of  its  pine  timber  more 
than  forty  years  before,  and  is  now  covered  with  a 
thick  growth  of  spruce  and  cedar  and  various  decid- 
uous trees.  But  the  birch  abounds.  Indeed,  when 
the  pine  goes  out  the  birch  comes  in ;  the  raco  of 
men  succeeds  the  race  of  giants.  This  tree  has  great 
stay-at-home  virtues.  Let  the  sombre,  aspiring,  mys- 
terious pine  go  ;  the  birch  has  humble  every-day  uses. 
In  Maine,  the  paper  or  canoe  birch  is  turned  to  more 
account  than  any  other  tree.  I  read  in  Gibbon  that 
the  natives  of  ancient  Assyria  used  to  celebrate  in 
verse  or  prose  the  three  hundred  and  sixty  uses  to 
which  the  various  parts  and  products  of  the  palm- 
tree  were  applied.  The  Maine  birch  is  turned  to  so 
many  accounts  that  it  may  well  be  called  the  palm  of 
this  region.  Uncle  Nathan,  our  guide,  said  it  was 


112  A  TASTE   OF  MAINE   BIRCH. 

made  especially  for  the  camper-opt ;  yes,  and  for  the 
woodman  and  frontiersman  generally.  It  is  a  mag- 
azine, a  furnishing  store  set  up  in  the  wilderness, 
whose  goods  are  free  to  every  comer.  The  whole 
equipment  of  the  camp  lies  folded  in  it,  and  comes 
forth  at  the  heck  of  the  woodman's  axe  ;  tent,  water- 
proof roof,  boat,  camp  utensils,  buckets,  cups,  plates, 
spoons,  napkins,  table-cloths,  paper  for  letters  or  your 
journal,  torches,  candles,  kindling-wood,  and  fuel. 
The  canoe-birch  yields  you  its  vestments  with  the 
utmost  liberality.  Ask  for  its  coat,  and  it  gives  you 
its  waistcoat  also.  Its  bark  seems  wrapped  about  it 
layer  upon  layer,  and  comes  off  with  great  ease.  We 
saw  many  rude  structures  and  cabins  shingled  and 
sided  with  it,  and  haystacks  capped  with  it.  Near  a 
maple-sugar  camp  there  was  a  large  pile  of  birch- 
bark  sap-buckets,  —  each  bucket  made  of  a  piece  of 
bark  about  a  yard  square,  folded  up  as  the  tinman 
folds  up  a  sheet  of  tin  to  make  a  square  vessel,  the 
corners  bent  around  against  the  sides  and  held  by  a 
wooden  pin.  When,  one  day,  we  were  overtaken  by 
a  shower  in  traveling  through  the  woods,  our  guide 
quickly  stripped  large  sheets  of  the  bark  from  a  near 
tree,  and  we  had  each  a  perfect  umbrella  as  by 
magic.  When  the  rain  was  over,  and  we  moved  on, 
I  wrapped  mine  about  me  like  a  large  leather  apron, 
and  it  shielded  my  clothes  from  the  wet  bushes. 
When  we  came  to  a  spring,  Uncle  Nathan  would 
have  a  birch-bark  cup  ready  before  any  of  us  could 
get  a  tin  one  out  of  his  knapsack,  and  I  think  water 


A   TASTE   OF  MAINE   BIRCH.  113 

never  tasted  so  sweet  as  from  one  of  these  bark 
cups.  It  is  exactly  the  thing.  It  just  fits  the  mouth, 
and  it  seems  to  give  new  virtues  to  the  water.  It 
makes  me  thirsty  now  when  I  think  of  it.  In  our 
camp  at  Moxie  we  made  a  large  birch-bark  box  to 
keep  the  butter  in ;  and  the  butter  in  this  box,  cov- 
ered with  some  leafy  boughs,  I  think  improved  in  fla- 
vor day  by  day.  Maine  butter  needs  something  to 
mollify  and  sweeten  it  a  little,  and  I  think  birch  bark 
will  do  it.  In  camp  Uncle  Nathan  often  drank  his 
tea  and  coffee  from  a  bark  cup ;  the  china  closet  in 
the  birch-tree  was  always  handy,  and  our  vulgar 
tinware  was  generally  a  good  deal  mixed,  and  the 
kitchen-maid  not  at  all  particular  about  dish-washing. 
We  all  tried  the  oatmeal  with  the  maple  syrup  in  one 
of  these  dishes,  and  the  stewed  mountain  cranberries, 
using  a  birch-bark  spoon,  and  never  found  service 
better.  Uncle  Nathan  declared  he  could  boil  pota- 
toes in  a  bark  kettle,  and  I  did  not  doubt  him.  In- 
stead of  sending  our  soiled  napkins  and  table-spreads 
to  the  wash,  we  rolled  them  up  into  candles  and 
torches,  and  drew  daily  upon  our  stores  in  the  forest 
for  new  ones. 

But  the  great  triumph  of  the  birch  is  of  course  the 
bark  canoe.  When  Uncle  Nathan  took  us  out  under 
his  little  wood-shed,  and  showed  us,  or  rather  mod- 
estly permitted  us  to  see,  his  nearly  finished  canoe,  it 
was  like  a  first  glimpse  of  some  new  and  unknown 
genius  of  the  woods  or  streams.  It  sat  there  on  the 
chips  and  shavings  and  fragments  of  bark  like  some 


114  A  TASTE   OF  MAINE   BIRCH. 

shy,  delicate  creature  just  emerged  from  its  hiding- 
place,  or  like  some  wild  flower  just  opened.  It  was 
the  first  boat  of  the  kind  I  had  ever  seen,  and  it 
filled  my  eye  completely.  What  wood-craft  it  indi- 
cated, and  what  a  wild  free  life,  sylvan  life,  it  prom- 
ised !  It  had  such  a  fresh,  aboriginal  look  as  I  had 
never  before  seen  in  any  kind  of  handiwork.  Its 
clear  yellow-red  color  would  have  become  the  cheek 
of  an  Indian  maiden.  Then  its  supple  curves  and 
swells,  its  sinewy  stays  and  thwarts,  its  bow-like  con- 
tour, its  tomahawk  stem  and  stern  rising  quickly  and 
sharply  from  its  frame,  were  all  vividly  suggestive  of 
the  race  from  which  it  came.  An  old  Indian  had 
taught  Uncle  Nathan  the  art,  and  the  soul  of  the 
ideal  red  man  looked  out  of  the  boat  before  us.  Un- 
cle Nathan  had  spent  two  days  ranging  the  moun- 
tains looking  for  a  suitable  tree,  and  had  worked 
nearly  a  week  on  the  craft.  It  was  twelve  feet  long, 
and  would  seat  and  carry  five  men  nicely.  Three 
trees  contribute  to  the  making  of  a  canoe  beside  the 
birch,  namely,  the  white  cedar  for  ribs  and  lining, 
the  spruce  for  roots  and  fibres  to  sew  its  joints  and 
bind  its  frame,  and  the  pine  for  pitch  or  rosin  to  stop 
its  seams  and  cracks.  It  is  hand-made  and  home- 
made, or  rather  wood-made,  in  a  sense  that  no  other 
craft  is,  except  a  dug-out,  and  it  suggests  a  taste  and 
a  refinement  that  few  products  of  civilization  realize. 
The  design  of  a  savage,  it  yet  looks  like  the  thought 
of  a  poet,  and  its  grace  and  fitness  haunt  the  imagi- 
nation. I  suppose  its  production  was  the  inevi table 


A   TASTE   OF   MAINE   BIRCH.  115 

result  of  the  Indian's  wants  and  surroundings,  but 
that  does  not  detract  from  its  beauty.  It  is,  indeed, 
one  of  the  fairest  flowers  the  thorny  plant  of  neces- 
sity ever  bore.  Our  canoe,  as  I  have  intimated,  was 
not  yet  finished,  when  we  first  saw  it,  nor  yet  when 
we  took  it  up,  with  its  architect,  upon  our  meta- 
phorical baeks  and  bore  it  to  the  woods.  It  lacked 
part  of  its  cedar  lining  and  the  rosin  upon  its  joints, 
and  these  were  added  after  we  reached  our  desti- 
nation. 

Though  we  were  not  indebted  to  the  birch-tree  for 
our  guide,  Uncle  Nathan,  as  he  was  known  in  all  that 
country,  yet  he  matched  well  these  woodsy  prod- 
ucts and  conveniences.  The  birch-tree  had  given 
him  a  large  part  of  his  tuition,  and  kneeling  in  his 
canoe  and  making  it  shoot  noiselessly  over  the  water 
with  that  subtle  yet  indescribably  expressive  and  ath- 
letic play  of  the  muscles  of  the  back  and  shoulders, 
the  boat  and  the  man  seemed  born  of  the  same  spirit. 
He  had  been  a  hunter  and  trapper  for  over  forty 
years  ;  he  had  grown  gray  in  the  woods,  had  ripened 
and  matured  there,  and  everything  about  him  was  as 
if  the  spirit  of  the  woods  had  had  the  ordering  of  it ; 
his  whole  make-up  was  in  a  minor  and  subdued  key, 
like  the  moss  and  the  lichens,  or  like  the  protective 
coloring  of  the  game,  —  everything  but  his  quick 
sense  and  penetrative  glance.  He  was  as  gentle  and 
modest  as  a  girl ;  his  sensibilities  were  like  plants 
that  grow  in  the  shade.  The  woods  and  the  solitudes 
had  touched  him  with  their  own  softening  and  refin- 


116  A  TASTE  OF  MAINE   BIRCH. 

ing  influence  ;  had  indeed  shed  upon  his  soil  of  life  a 
rich  deep  leaf  mould  that  was  delightful,  and  that 
nursed,  half  concealed,  the  tenderest  and  wildest 
growths.  There  was  grit  enough  back  of  and  be- 
neath it  all,  but  he  presented  none  of  the  rough  and 
repelling  traits  of  character  of  the  conventional  back- 
woodsman. In  the  spring  he  was  a  driver  of  logs  on 
the  Kennebec,  usually  having  charge  of  a  large  gang 
of  men ;  in  the  winter  he  was  a  solitary  trapper  and 
hunter  in  the  forests. 

Our  first  glimpse  of  Maine  waters  was  Pleasant 
Pond,  which  we  found  by  following  a  white,  rapid, 
musical  stream  from  the  Kennebec  three  miles  back 
into  the  mountains.  Maine  waters  are  for  the  most 
part  dark-complexioned,  Indian-colored  streams,  but 
Pleasant  Pond  is  a  pale-face  among  them  both  in 
name  and  nature.  It  is  the  only  strictly  silver  lake 
I  ever  saw.  Its  waters  seem  almost  artificially  white 
and  brilliant,  though  of  remarkable  transparency.  I 
think  I  detected  minute  shining  motes  held  in  suspen- 
sion in  it.  As  for  the  trout  they  are  veritable  bars 
of  silver  until  you  have  cut  their  flesh,  when  they  are 
the  reddest  of  gold.  They  have  no  crimson  or  other 
spots,  and  the  straight  lateral  line  is  but  a  faint  pen- 
cil mark.  They  appeared  to  be  a  species  of  lake 
trout  peculiar  to  these  waters,  uniformly  from  ten  to 
twelve  inches  in  length.  And  these  beautiful  fish,  at 
the  time  of  our  visit  (last  of  August)  at  least,  were 
to  be  taken  only  in  deep  water  upon  a  hook  baited 
with  salt  pork.  And  then  you  needed  a  letter  of  in- 


A   TASTE   OF   MAINE  BIRCH.  117 

troduction  to  them.  They  were  not  to  be  tempted  or 
cajoled  by  strangers.  We  did  not  succeed  in  raising 
a  fish,  although  instructed  how  it  was  to  be  done, 
until  one  of  the  natives,  a  young  and  obliging  farmer 
living  hard  by,  came  and  lent  his  countenance  to  the 
enterprise.  I  sat  in  one  end  of  the  boat  and  he  in 
the  other,  my  pork  was  the  same  as  his  and  I  ma- 
no3uvred  it  as  directed,  and  yet  those  fish  knew  his 
hook  from  mine  in  sixty  feet  of  water,  and  preferred 
it  four  times  in  five.  Evidently  they  did  not  bite 
because  they  were  hungry,  but  solely  for  old  ac- 
quaintance' sake. 

Pleasant  Pond  is  an  irregular  sheet  of  water,  two 
miles  or  more  in  its  greatest  diameter,  with  high  rug- 
ged mountains  rising  up  from  its  western  shore,  and 
low  rolling  hills  sweeping  back  from  its  eastern  and 
northern,  covered  by  a  few  sterile  farms.  I  was  never 
tired,  when  the  wind  was  still,  of  floating  along  its 
margin  and  gazing  down  into  its  marvelously  trans- 
lucent depths.  The  bowlders  and  fragments  of  rocks 
were  seen,  at  a  depth  of  twenty-five  or  thirty  feet, 
strewing  its  floor,  and  apparently  as  free  from  any 
covering  of  sediment  as  when  they  were  dropped 
there  by  the  old  glaciers  aeons  ago.  Our  camp  was 
amid  a  dense  grove  of  second  growth  of  white  pine 
on  the  eastern  shore,  where,  for  one,  I  found  a  most 
admirable  cradle  in  a  little  depression,  outside  of  the 
tent,  carpeted  with  pine  needles,  in  which  to  pass  the 
night.  The  camper-out  is  always  in  luck  if  he  can 
find,  sheltered  by  the  trees,  a  soft  hole  in  the  ground, 


118  A  TASTE   OF   MAINE   BIRCH. 

even  if  he  has  a  stone  for  a  pillow.  The  earth  must 
open  its  arms  a  little  for  us  even  in  life,  if  we  are  to 
sleep  well  upon  i£s  bosom.  I  have  often  heard  my 
grandfather,  who  was  a  soldier  of  the  Revolution,  tell 
with  great  gusto  how  he  once  bivouacked  in  a  little 
hollow  made  by  the  overturning  of  a  tree,  and  slept 
so  soundly  that  he  did  not  wake  up  till  his  cradle 
was  half  full  of  water  from  a  passing  shower. 

What  bird  or  other  creature  might  represent  the 
divinity  of  Pleasant  Pond  I  do  not  know,  but  its 
demon,  as  of  most  northern  inland  waters,  is  the  loon ; 
and  a  very  good  demon  he  is  too,  suggesting  some- 
thing not  so  much  malevolent,  as  arch,  sardonic,  ubiq- 
uitous, circumventing,  with  just  a  tinge  of  something 
inhuman  and  uncanny.  His  fiery  red  eyes  gleaming 
forth  from  that  jet-black  head  are  full  of  meaning. 
Then,  his  strange  horse  laughter  by  day  and  his  weird, 
doleful  cry  at  night,  like  that  of  a  lost  and  wandering 
spirit,  recall  no  other  bird  or  beast.  He  suggests  some- 
thing almost  supernatural  in  his  alertness  and  amaz- 
ing quickness,  cheating  the  shot  and  the  bullet  of  the 
sportsman  out  of  their  aim.  I  know  of  but  one  other 
bird  so  quick,  and  that  is  the  humming-bird,  which  I 
have  never  been  able  to  kill  with  a  gun.  The  loon 
laughs  the  shot-gun  to  scorn,  and  the  obliging  young 
farmer  above  referred  to  told  me  he  had  shot  at  them 
hundreds  of  times  with  his  rifle,  without  effect,  — 
they  always  dodged  his  bullet.  We  had  in  our  party 
a  breech-loading  rifle,  which  weapon  is  perhaps  an 
appreciable  moment  of  time  quicker  than  the  ordinary 


A  TASTE   OF    MAINE   BIRCH.  119 

muzzle  loader,  and  this  the  poor  loon  could  not  or  did 
not  dodge.  He  had  not  timed  himself  to  that  species 
of  fire-arms,  and  when,  with  his  fellow,  he  swam 
about  within  rifle  range  of  our  camp,  letting  off  vol- 
leys of  his  wild,  ironical  ha-ha,  he  little  suspected  the 
dangerous  gun  that  was  matched  against  him.  As 
the  rifle  cracked  both  loons  made  the  gesture  of  div- 
ing, but  only  one  of  them  disappeared  beneath  the 
water ;  and  when  he  came  to  the  surface  in  a  few 
moments,  a  hundred  or  more  yards  away,  and  saw 
his  companion  did  not  follow,  but  was  floating  on  the 
water  where  he  had  last  seen  him,  he  took  the  alarm 
and  sped  away  in  the  distance.  The  bird  I  had  killed 
was  a  magnificent  specimen,  and  I  looked  him  over 
with  great  interest.  His  glossy  checkered  coat,  his 
banded  neck,  his  snow-white  breast,  his  powerful 
lance-shaped  beak,  his  red  eyes,  his  black,  thin,  slen- 
der, marvelously  delicate  feet  and  legs,  issuing  from 
his  muscular  thighs,  and  looking  as  if  they  had  never 
touched  the  ground,  his  strong  wings  well  forward, 
while  his  legs  were  quite  at  the  apex,  and  the  neat, 
elegant  model  of  the  entire  bird,  speed  and  quickness 
and  strength  stamped  upon  every  feature,  —  all  de- 
lighted and  lingered  in  the  eye.  The  loon  appears 
like  anything  but  a  silly  bird,  unless  you  see  him  in 
some  collection,  or  in  the  shop  of  the  taxidermist, 
where  he  usually  looks  very  tame  and  goose-like. 
Nature  never  meant  the  loon  to  stand  up.  or  to  use 
his  feet  and  legs  for  other  purposes  than  swimming. 
Indeed,  he  cannot  stand  except  upon  his  tail  in  a  per- 


120  A   TASTE   OF  MAINE   BIRCH. 

pendicular  attitude,  but  in  the  collections  he  is  poised 
upon  his  feet  like  a  barn-yard  fowl,  all  the  wildness 
and  grace  and  alertness  gone  out  of  him.  My  spec- 
imen sits  upon  a  table  as  upon  the  surface  of  the 
water,  his  feet  trailing  behind  him,  his  body  low  and 
trim,  his  head  elevated  and  slightly  turned  as  if  in  the 
act  of  bringing  that  fiery  eye  to  bear  upon  you,  and 
vigilance  and  power  stamped  upon  every  lineament. 

The  loon  is  to  the  fishes  what  the  hawk  is  to  the 
birds  ;  he  swoops  down  to  unknown  depths  upon 
them,  and  not  even  the  wary  trout  can  elude  him. 
Uncle  Nathan  said  he  had  seen  the  loon  disappear, 
and  in  a  moment  come  up  with  a  large  trout,  which 
he  would  cut  in  two  with  his  strong  beak,  and  swal- 
low piecemeal.  Neither  the  loon  nor  the  otter  can 
bolt  a  fish  under  the  water ;  he  must  come  to  the  sur- 
face to  dispose  of  it.  (I  once  saw  a  man  eat  a  cake 
under  water  in  London.)  Our  guide  told  me  he  had 
seen  the  parent  loon  swimming  with  a  single  young 
one  upon  its  back.  When  closely  pressed  it  dove,  or 
"  div "  as  he  would  have  it,  and  left  the  young  bird 
sitting  upon  the  water.  Then  it  too  disappeared,  and 
when  the  old  one  returned  and  called  it  came  out 
from  the  shore.  On  the  wing  overhead,  the  loon 
looks  not  unlike  a  very  large  duck,  but  when  it  alights 
it  ploughs  into  the  water  like  a  bombshell.  It  prob- 
ably cannot  take  flight  from  the  land,  as  the  one  Gil- 
bert White  saw  and  describes  in  his  letters  was  picked 
up  in  a  field,  unable  to  launch  itself  into  the  air. 

From  Pleasant  Pond  we  went  seven  miles  through 


A  TASTE  OF  MAINE   BIRCH.  121 

the  woods  to  Moxie  Lake,  following  an  overgrown 
lumberman's  "  tote  "  road,  our  canoe  and  supplies, 
etc.,  hauled  on  a  sled  by  the  young  farmer  with  his 
three-year-old  steers.  I  doubt  if  birch-bavk  ever 
made  a  rougher  voyage  than  that.  As  I  watched  it 
above  the  bushes,  the  sled  and  the  lugagge  being  hid- 
den, it  appeared  as  if  tossed  in  the  wildest  and  most 
tempestuous  sea.  When  the  bushes  closed  above  it  I 
felt  as  if  it  had  gone  down,  or  been  broken  into  a  hun- 
dred pieces.  Billows  of  rocks  and  logs,  and  chasms 
of  creeks  and  spring  runs,  kept  it  rearing  and  pitch- 
ing in  the  most  frightful  manner.  The  steers  went  at 
a  spanking  pace ;  indeed,  it  was  a  regular  bovine 
gale ;  but  their  driver  clung  to  their  side  amid  the 
brush  and  bowlders  with  desperate  tenacity,  and 
seemed  to  manage  them  by  signs  and  nudges,  for  he 
hardly  uttered  his  orders  aloud.  But  we  got  through 
without  any  serious  mishap,  passing  Mosquito  Creek 
and  Mosquito  Pond,  and  flanking  Mosquito  Moun- 
tain, but  seeing  no  mosquitoes,  and  brought  up  at 
dusk  at  a  lumberman's  old  hay-barn,  standing  in  the 
'midst  of  a  lonely  clearing  on  the  shores  of  Moxie 
Lake. 

Here  we  passed  the  night,  and  were  lucky  in  hav- 
ing a  good  roof  over  our  heads,  for  it  rained  heavily. 
After  we  were  rolled  in  our  blankets  and  variously 
disposed  upon  the  haymow,  Uncle  Nathan  lulled  us  to 
sleep  by  a  long  and  characteristic  yarn. 

I  had  asked  him,  half  jocosely,  if  he  believed  in 
"  spooks ; "  but  he  took  my  question  seriously,  and 


122  A   TASTE   OF  MAINE  BIRCH. 

without  answering  it  directly,  proceeded  to  tell  us 
what  he  himself  had  known  and  witnessed.  It  was, 
by  the  way,  extremely  difficult  either  to  surprise  or  to 
steal  upon  any  of  Uncle  Nathan's  private  opinions 
and  beliefs  about  matters  and  things.  He  was  as  shy 
of  all  debatable  subjects  as  a  fox  is  of  a  trap.  He 
usually  talked  in  a  circle,  just  as  he  hunted  moose 
and  caribou,  so  as  not  to  approach  his  point  too  rudely 
and  suddenly.  He  would  keep  on  the  lee  side  of  his 
interlocutor  in  spite  of  all  one  could  do.  He  was 
thoroughly  good  and  reliable,  but  the  wild  creatures 
of  the  woods,  in  pursuit  of  which  he  had  spent  so 
much  of  his  life,  had  taught  him  a  curious  gentleness 
and  indirection,  and  to  keep  himself  in  the  back- 
ground ;  he  was  careful  that  you  should  not  scent  his 
opinions  upon  any  subject  at  all  polemic,  but  he  would 
tell  you  what  he  had  seen  and  known.  What  he  had 
seen  and  known  about  spooks  was  briefly  this :  In 
company  with  a  neighbor  he  was  passing  the  night 
with  an  old  recluse  who  lived  somewhere  in  these 
woods.  Their  host  was  an  Englishman,  who  had  the 
reputation  of  having  murdered  his  wife  some  years 
before  in  another  part  of  the  country,  and,  deserted 
by  his  grown-up  children,  was  eking  out  his  days  in 
poverty  amid  these  solitudes.  The  three  men  were 
sleeping  upon  the  floor,  with  Uncle  Nathan  next  to  a 
rude  partition  that  divided  the  cabin  into  two  rooms. 
At  his  head  there  was  a  door  that  opened  into  this 
other  apartment.  Late  at  night,  Uncle  Nathan  said, 
he  awoke  and  turned  over,  and  his  mind  was  occupied 


A  TASTE   OF  MAINE   BIRCH.  123 

with  various  things,  when  he  heard  somebody  behind 
the  partition.  He  reached  over  and  felt  that  both  of 
his  companions  were  in  their  places  beside  him,  and 
he  was  somewhat  surprised.  The  person,  or  what- 
ever it  was,  in  the  other  room  moved  about  heavily, 
and  pulled  the  table  from  its  place  beside  the  wall  to 
the  middle  of  the  floor.  "  I  was  not  dreaming,"  said 
Uncle  Nathan ;  "  I  felt  of  my  eyes  twice  to  make 
sure,  and  they  were  wide  open."  Presently  the  door 
opened  ;  he  was  sensible  of  the  draught  upon  his 
head,  and  a  woman's  form  stepped  heavily  past  him  ; 
he  felt  the  "  swirl "  of  her  skirts  as  she  went  by. 
Then  there  was  a  loud  noise  in  the  room,  as  if  some 
one  had  fallen  their  whole  length  upon  the  floor. 
"  It  jarred  the  house,"  said  he,  "  and  woke  everybody 

up.     I  asked  old   Mr.  if  he  heard  that  noise. 

*  Yes,'  said  he,  '  it  was  thunder.'  But  it  was  not 
thunder,  I  know  that ;  "  and  then  added,  "  I  was  no 
more  afraid  than  Lam  this  minute.  I  never  was  the 
least  mite  afraid  in  my  life.  And  my  eyes  were  wide 
open,"  he  repeated ;  "  I  felt  of  them  twice ;  but 
whether  that  was  the  speret  of  that  man's  murdered 
wife  or  not  I  cannot  tell.  They  said  she  was  an  un- 
common heavy  woman."  Uncle  Nathan  was  a  man 
of  unusually  quick  and  acute  senses,  and  he  did  not 
doubt  their  evidence  on  this  occasion  any  more  than 
he  did  when  they  prompted  him  to  level  his  rifle  at  a 
bear  or  a  moose. 

Moxie  Lake  lies  much  lower  than  Pleasant  Pond, 
and  its  waters  compared  with  those  of  the  latter  are 


124  A  TASTE   OF  MAINE   BIRCH. 

as  copper  compared  with  silver.  It  is  very  irregular 
in  shape  ;  now  narrowing  to  the  dimensions  of.  a  slow 
moving  grassy  creek,  then  expanding  into  a  broad 
deep  basin  with  rocky  shores,  and  commanding  the 
noblest  mountain  scenery.  It  is  rarely  that  the 
pond-lily  and  the  speckled  trout  are  found  together, 
—  the  fish  the  soul  of  the  purest  spring  water,  the 
flower  the  transfigured  spirit  of  the  dark  mud  and 
slime  of  sluggish  summer  streams  and  ponds  ;  yet  in 
Moxie  they  were  both  found  in  perfection.  Our  camp 
was  amid  the  birches,  poplars,  and  white  cedars  near 
the  head  of  the  lake,  where  the  best  fishing  at  this 
season  was  to  be  had.  Moxie  has  a  small  oval  head, 
rather  shallow,  but  bumpy  with  rocks  ;  a  long,  deep 
neck,  full  of  springs,  where  the  trout  lie  ;  and  a  very 
broad  chest,  with  two  islands  tufted  with  pine-trees 
for  breasts.  We  swam  in  the  head,  we  fished  in  the 
neck,  or  in  a  small  section  of  it,  a  space  about  the 
size  of  the  Adam's  apple,  and  we  paddled  across  and 
around  the  broad  expanse  below.  Our  birch-bark 
was  not  finished  and  christened  till  we  reached  Moxie. 
The  cedar  lining  was  completed  at  Pleasant  Pond, 
where  we  had  the  use  of  a  bateau,  but  the  rosin  was 
not  applied  to  the  seams  till  we  reached  this  lake. 
When  I  knelt  down  in  it  for  the  first  time,  and  put 
its  slender  maple  paddle  into  the  water,  it  sprang 
away  with  such  quickness  and  speed  that  it  disturbed 
me  in  my  seat.  I  had  spurred  a  more  restive  and 
spirited  steed  than  I  was  used  to.  In  fact,  I  had 
never  been  in  a  craft  that  sustained  so  close  a  relation 


A  TASTE   OF  MAINE  BIRCH.  125 

to  my  will,  and  was  so  responsive  to  my  slightest 
wish.  When  I  caught  my  first  large  trout  from  it, 
it  sympathized  a  little  too  closely,  and  my  enthusiasm 
started  a  leak,  which,  however,  with  a  live  coal  and 
a  piece  of  rosin,  was  quickly  mended.  You  cannot 
perform  much  of  a  war-dance  in  a  birch-bark  canoe ; 
better  wait  till  you  get  on  dry  land.  Yet  as  a  boat  it 
is  not  so  shy  and  "  ticklish  "  as  I  had  imagined.  One 
needs  to  be  on  the  alert,  as  becomes  a  sportsman  and 
an  angler,  and  in  his  dealings  with  it  must  charge 
himself  with  three  things,  —  precision,  moderation, 
and  circumspection. 

Trout  weighing  four  and  five  pounds  have  been 
taken  at  Moxie,  but  none  of  that  size  came  to  our 
hand.  I  realized  the  fondest  hopes  I  had  dared  to 
indulge  in  when  I  hooked  the  first  two-pounder  of  my 
life,  and  my  extreme  solicitude  lest  he  get  away  I 
trust  was  pardonable.  My  friend,  in  relating  the 
episode  in  camp,  said  I  had  implored  him  to  row  me 
down  in  the  middle  of  the  lake  that  I  might  have 
room  to  manosuvre  my  fish.  But  the  slander  has 
barely  a  grain  of  truth  in  it.  The  water  near  us 
showed  several  old  stakes  broken  off  just  below  the 
surface,  and  my  fish  was  determined  to  wrap  my 
leader  about  one  of  these  stakes  ;  it  was  only  for  the 
clear  space  a  few  yards  farther  out  that  I  prayed.  It 
was  not  long  after  that  my  friend  found  himself  in 
an  anxious  frame  of  mind.  He  hooked  a  large  trout, 
which  came  home  on  him  so  suddenly  that  he  had 
not  time  to  reel  up  his  line,  and  in  his  extremity  he 


126  A  TASTE  OF  MAINE  BIRCH. 

stretched  his  tall  form  into  the  air  and  lifted  up  his 
pole  to  an  incredible  height.  He  checked  the  trout 
before  it  got  under  the  boat,  but  dared  not  come  down 
an  inch,  and  then  began  his  amusing  further  elonga- 
tion in  reaching  for  his  reel  with  one  hand,  while  he 
carried  it  ten  feet  into  the  air  with  the  other.  A 
step  ladder  would  perhaps  have  been  more  welcome 
to  him  just  then  than  at  any  other  moment  during 
his  life.  But  the  trout  was  saved,  though  my  friend's 
buttons  and  suspenders  suffered. 

We  learned  a  new  trick  in  fly-fishing  here,  worth 
disclosing.  It  was  not  one  day  in  four  that  the  trout 
would  take  the  fly  on  the  surface.  When  the  south 
wind  was  blowing  and  the  clouds  threatened  rain, 
they  would  at  times,  notably  about  three  o'clock,  rise 
handsomely.  But  on  all  other  occasions  it  was  rarely 
that  we  could  entice  them  up  through  the  twelve-  or 
fifteen  feet  of  water.  Earlier  in  the  season  they  are 
not  so  lazy  and  indifferent,  but  the  August  languor 
and  drowsiness  were  now  upon  them.  So  we  learned 
by  a  lucky  accident  to  fish  deep  for  them,  even 
weighting  our  leaders  with  a  shot,  and  allowing  the 
flies  to  sink  nearly  to  the  bottom.  After  a  moment's 
pause  we  would  draw  them  slowly  up,  and  when  half 
or  two  thirds  of  the  way  to  the  top  the  trout  would 
strike,  when  the  sport  became  lively  enough.  Most 
of  our  fish  were  taken  in  this  way.  There  is  nothing 
like  the  flash  and  the  strike  at  the  surface,  and  per- 
haps only  the  need  of  food  will  ever  tempt  the  gen- 
uine angler  into  any  more  prosaic  style  of  fishing; 


A   TASTE   OF  MAINE   BIRCH.  127 

but  if  you  must  go  below  the  surface,  a  shotted  leader 
is  the  best  thing  to  use. 

Our  camp  fire  at  night  served  more  purposes  than 
one  ;  from  its  embers  and  flickering  shadows,  Uncle 
Nathan  read  us  many  a  tale  of  his  life  in  the  woods. 
They  were  the  same  old  hunter's  stories,  except  that 
they  evidently  had  the  merit  of  being  strictly  true, 
and  hence  were  not  very  thrilling  or  marvelous. 
Uncle  Nathan's  tendency  was  rather  to  tone  down 
and  belittle  his  experiences  than  to  exaggerate  them. 
If  he  ever  bragged  at  all  (and  I  suspect  he  did  just 
a  little,  when  telling  us  how  he  outshot  one  of  the 
famous  riflemen  of  the  American  team,  whom  he  was 
guiding  through  these  woods),  he  did  it  in  such  a  sly, 
roundabout  way  that  it  was  hard  to  catch  him  at  it. 
His  passage  with  the  rifleman  referred  to  shows  the 
difference  between  the  practical  off-hand  skill  of  the 
hunter  in  the  woods  and  the  science  of  the  long-range 
target  hitter.  Mr.  Bull's  Eye  had  heard  that  his  guide 
was  a  capital  shot  and  had  seen  some  proof  of  it,  and 
hence  could  not  rest  till  he  had  had  a  trial  of  skill 
with  him.  Uncle  Nathan,  being  the  challenged  party, 
had  the  right  to  name  the  distance  and  the  condi- 
tions. A  piece  of  white  paper  the  size  of  a  silver  dollar 
was  put  upon  a  tree  twelve  rods  off,  the  contestants 
to  fire  three  shots  each  offhand.  Uncle  Nathan's 
first  bullet  barely  missed  the  mark,  but  the  other  two 
were  planted  well  into  it.  Then  the  great  rifleman 
took  his  turn,  and  missed  every  time. 

"  By  hemp !  "  said  Uncle  Nathan,  "  I  was  sorry  I 


128  A  TASTE  OF  MAINE  BIRCH. 

shot  so  well,  Mr. took  it  so  to  heart ;  and  I  had 

used  his  own  rifle,  too.  He  did  not  get  over  it  for  a 
week." 

But  far  more  ignominious  was  the  failure  of  Mr. 
Bull's  Eye  when  he  saw  his  first  bear.  They  were 
paddling  slowly  and  silently  down  Dead  River,  when 
the  guide  heard  a  slight  noise  in  the  bushes  just  be- 
hind a  little  bend.  He  whispered  to  the  rifleman, 
who  sat  kneeling  in  the  bow  of  the  boat,  to  take  his 
rifle.  But  instead  of  doing  so  he  picked  up  his  two- 
barreled  shot-gun.  As  they  turned  the  point,  there 
stood  a  bear  not  twenty  yards  away,  drinking  from 
the  stream.  Uncle  Nathan  held  the  canoe,  while  the 
man  who  had  come  so  far  in  quest  of  this  very  game 
was  trying  to  lay  down  his  shot-gun  and  pick  up  his 
rifle.  "  His  hand  moved  like  the  hand  of  a  clock," 
said  Uncle  Nathan,  "  and  I  could  hardly  keep  my 
seat.  I  knew  the  bear  would  see  us  in  a  moment 
more,  and  run."  Instead  of  laying  his  gun  by  his 
side,  where  it  belonged,  he  reached  it  across  in  front 
of  him,  and  laid  it  upon  his  rifle,  and  in  trying  to  get 
the  latter  from  under  it  a  noise  was  made ;  the  bear 
heard  it,  and  raised  his  head.  Still  there  was  time, 
for  as  the  bear  sprang  into  the  woods  he  stopped  and 
looked  back,  —  "as  I  knew  he  would,"  said  the 
guide ;  yet  the  marksman  was  not  ready.  "  By 
hemp !  I  could  have  shot  three  bears,"  exclaimed 
Uncle  Nathan,  "while  he  was  getting  that  rifle  to  his 
face !  " 

Poor    Mr.    Bull's    Eye    was   deeply    humiliated. 


A   TASTE   OF   MAINE   BIRCH.  129 

"  Just  the  chance  I  had  been  looking  for,"  he  said, 
"  and  my  wits  suddenly  left  me." 

As  a  hunter  Uncle  Nathan  always  took  the  game 
on  its  own  terms,  that  of  still-hunting.  He  even  shot 
foxes  in  this  way,  going  into  the  fields  in  the  fall  just 
at  break  of  day,  and  watching  for  them  about  their 
mousing  haunts.  One  morning,  by  these  tactics,  he 
shot  a  black  fox ;  a  fine  specimen,  he  said,  and  a  wild 
one,  for  he  stopped  and  looked  and  listened  every  few 
yards. 

He  had  killed  over  two  hundred  moose,  a  large 
number  of  them  at  night  on  the  lakes.  His  method 
was  to  go  out  in  his  canoe  and  conceal  himself  by 
some  point  or  island,  and  wait  till  he  heard  the  game. 
In  the  fall  the  moose  comes  into  the  water  to  eat  the 
large  fibrous  roots  of  the  pond-lilies.  He  splashes 
along  till  he  finds  a  suitable  spot,  when  he  begins  feed- 
ing, sometimes  thrusting  his  head  and  neck  several 
feet  under  water.  The  hunter  listens,  and  when  the 
moose  lifts  his  head  and  the  rills  of  water  run  from 
it,  and  he  hears  him  "  swash  "  the  lily  roots  about  to 
get  off  the  mud,  it  is  his  time  to  start.  Silently  as  a 
sjiadow  he  creeps  up  on  the  moose,  who  by  the  way, 
it  seems,  never  expects  the  approach  of  danger  from 
the  water  side.  If  the  hunter  accidentally  makes  a 
noise  the  moose  looks  toward  the  shore  for  it.  There 
is  always  a  slight  gleam  on  the  water,  Uncle  Nathan 
says,  even  in  the  darkest  night,  and  the  dusky  form 
of  the  moose  can  be  distinctly  seen  upon  it.  When 
the  hunter  sees  this  darker  shadow  he  lifts  his  gun  to 


130  A  TASTE  OF  MAINE   BIRCH. 

the  sky  and  gets  the  range  of  its  barrels,  then  lowers 
it  till  it  covers  the  mark,  and  fires. 

The  largest  moose  Uncle  Nathan  ever  killed  is 
mounted  in  the  State  House  at  Augusta.  He  shot 
him  while  hunting  in  winter  on  snow-shoes.  The 
moose  was  reposing  upon  the  ground,  with  his  head 
stretched  out  in  front  of  him,  as  one  may  sometimes 
see  a  cow  resting.  The  position  was  such  that  only 
a  quartering  shot  through  the  animal's  hip  could 
reach  its  heart.  Studying  the  problem  carefully,  and 
taking  his  own  time,  the  hunter  fired.  The  moose 
sprang  into  the  air,  turned,  and  came  with  tremen- 
dous strides  straight  toward  him.  "  I  knew  he  had 
not  seen  or  scented  me,"  said  Uncle  Nathan,  "but, 
by  hemp,  I  wished  myself  somewhere  else  just  then  ; 
for  I  was  lying  right  down  in  his  path."  But  the 
noble  animal  stopped  a  few  yards  short,  and  fell  dead 
with  a  bullet  hole  through  his  heart. 

When  the  moose  yard  in  the  winter,  that  is,  restrict 
their  wanderings  to  a  well-defined  section  of  the 
forest  or  mountain,  trampling  down  the  snow  and 
beating  paths  in  all  directions,  they  browse  off  only 
the  most  dainty  morsels  first ;  when  they  go  over  the 
ground  a  second  time  they  crop  a  little  cleaner  ;  the 
third  time  they  sort  still  closer,  till  by  and  by  nothing 
is  left.  Spruce,  hemlock,  poplar,  the  barks  of  various 
trees,  everything  within  reach,  is  cropped  close. 
When  the  hunter  comes  upon  one  of  these  yards  the 
problem  for  him  to  settle  is,  Where  are  the  moose  ? 
for  it  is  absolutely  necessary  that  he  keep  on  the  lee 


A  TASTE   OF  MAINE  BIRCH.  131 

side  of  them.  So  he  considers  the  lay  of  the  land,  the 
direction  of  the  wind,  the  time  of  day,  the  depth  of 
the  snow,  examines  the  spoor,  the  cropped  twigs,  and 
studies  every  hint  and  clew  like  a  detective.  Uncle 
Nathan  said  he  could  not  explain  to  another  how  he 
did  it,  but  he  could  usually  tell  in  a  few  minutes  in 
what  direction  to  look  for  the  game.  His  experience 
had  ripened  into  a  kind  of  intuition  or  winged  reason- 
ing that  was  above  rules. 

He  said  that  most  large  game,  deer,  caribou,  moose, 
bear,  when  started  by  the  hunter  and  not  much 
scared,  were  sure  to  stop  and  look  back  before  disap- 
pearing from  sight ;  he  usually  waited  for  this  last 
and  best  chance  to  fire.  He  told  us  of  a  huge  bear 
he  had  seen  one  morning  while  still-hunting  foxes  in 
the  fields ;  the  bear  saw  him,  and  got  into  the  woods 
before  he  could  get  a  good  shot.  In  her  course  some 
distance  up  the  mountain  was  a  bald,  open  spot,  and 
he  felt  sure  when  she  crossed  this  spot  she  would 
pause  and  look  behind  her ;  and  sure  enough,  like 
Lot's  wife,  her  curiosity  got  the  better  of  her ;  she 
stopped  to  have  a  final  look,  and  her  travels  ended 
there  and  then. 

Uncle  Nathan  had  trapped  and  shot  a  great  many 
bears,  and  some  of  his  experiences  revealed  an  un- 
usual degree  of  sagacity  in  this  animal.  One  April, 
when  the  weather  began  to  get  warm  and  thawy,  an 
old  bear  left  her  den  in  the  rocks,  and  built  a  large, 
warm  nest  of  grass,  leaves,  and  the  bark  of  the  white 
cedar,  under  a  tall  balsam  fir  that  stood  in  a  low, 


132  A  TASTE  OF  MAINE  BIRCH. 

sunny,  open  place  amid  the  mountains.  Hither  she 
conducted  her  two  cubs,  and  the  family  began  life  in 
what  might  be  called  their  spring  residence.  The 
tree  above  them  was  for  shelter,  and  for  refuge  for 
the  cubs  in  case  danger  approached,  as  it  soon  did  in 
the  form  of  Uncle  Nathan.  He  happened  that  way 
soon  after  the  bear  had  moved.  Seeing  her  track  in 
the  snow,  he  concluded  to  follow  it.  When  the  bear 
had  passed,  the  snow  had  been  soft  and  sposhy,  and 
she  had  "  slumped,"  he  said,  several  inches.  It  was 
now  hard  and  slippery.  As  he  neared  the  tree  the 
track  turned  and  doubled,  and  tacked  this  way  and 
that,  and  led  through  the  worst  brush  and  brambles 
to  be  found.  This  was  a  shrewd  thought  of  the  old 
bear  ;  she  could  thus  hear  her  enemy  coming  a  long 
time  before  he  drew  very  near.  When  Uncle  Nathan 
finally  reached  the  nest,  he  found  it  empty,  but  still 
warm.  Then  he  began  to  circle  about  and  look  for 
the  bear's  foot-prints  or  nail-prints  upon  the  frozen 
snow.  Not  finding  them  the  first  time,  he  took  a 
larger  circle,  then  a  still  larger ;  finally  he  made  a 
long  detour,  and  spent  nearly  an  hour  searching  for 
some  clew  to  the  direction  the  bear  had  taken,  but 
all  to  no  purpose.  Then  he  returned  to  the  tree  and 
scrutinized  it.  The  foliage  was  very  dense,  but  pres- 
ently he  made  out  one  of  the  cubs  near  the  top, 
standing  up  amid  the  branches,  and  peering  down  at 
him.  This  he  killed.  Further  search  only  revealed 
a  mass  of  foliage  apparently  more  dense  than  usual, 
but  a  bullet  sent  into  it  was  followed  by  loud  whim- 


A  TASTE  OP  MAINE  BIRCH.  133 

pering  and  crying,  and  the  other  baby  bear  came  tum- 
bling down.  In  leaving  the  place,  greatly  puzzled  as 
to  what  had  become  of  the  mother  bear,  Uncle  Nathan 
followed  another  of  her  frozen  tracks,  and  after  about 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  saw  beside  it,  upon  the  snow,  the 
fresh  trail  he  had  been  in  search  of.  In  making  her 
escape  the  bear  had  stepped  exactly  in  her  old  tracks 
that  were  hard  and  icy,  and  had  thus  left  no  mark 
till  she  took  to  the  snow  again. 

During  his  trapping  expeditions  into  the  woods  in 
midwinter,  I  was  curious  to  know  how  Uncle  Nathan 
passed  the  nights,  as  we  were  twice  pinched  with  the 
cold  at  that  season  in  our  tent  and  blankets.  It  was 
no  trouble  to  keep  warm,  he  said,  in  the  coldest 
weather.  As  night  approached,  he  would  select  a 
place  for  his  camp  on  the  side  of  a  hill.  With  one  of 
his  snow-shoes  he  would  shovel  out  the  snow  till  the 
ground  was  reached,  carrying  the  snow  out  in  front, 
as  we  scrape  the  earth  out  of  the  side  of  a  hill  to  level 
up  a  place  for  the  house  and  yard.  On  this  level  place, 
which,  however,  was  made  to  incline  slightly  toward 
the  hill,  his  bed  of  boughs  was  made.  On  the  ground 
he  had  uncovered  he  built  his  fire.  His  bed  was  thus 
on  a  level  with  the  fire,  and  the  heat  could  not  thaw 
the  snow  under  him  and  let  him  down,  or  the  burn- 
ing logs  roll  upon  him.  With  a  steep  ascent  behind 
it  the  fire  burned  better,  and  the  wind  was  not  so  apt 
to  drive  the  smoke  and  blaze  in  upon  him.  Then, 
with  the  long,  curving  branches  of  the  spruce  stuck 
thickly  around  three  sides  of  the  bed,  and  curving 


134  A  TASTE  OF  MAINE   BIRCH. 

over  and  uniting  their  tops  above  it,  a  shelter  was 
formed  that  would  keep  out  the  cold  and  the  snow, 
and  that  would  catch  and  retain  the  warmth  of  the 
fire.  Rolled  in  his  blanket  in  such  a  nest,  Uncle 
Nathan  had  passed  hundreds  of  the  most  frigid 
winter  nights. 

One  day  we  made  an  excursion  of  three  miles 
through  the  woods  to  Bald  Mountain,  following  a 
dim  trail.  We  saw,  as  we  filed  silently  along,  plenty 
of  signs  of  caribou,  deer,  and  bear,  but  were  not  blessed 
with  a  sight  of  either  of  the  animals  themselves.  I 
noticed  that  Uncle  Nathan,  in  looking  through  the 
woods,  did  not  hold  his  head  as  we  did,  but  thrust 
it  slightly  forward,  and  peered  under  the  branches 
like  a  deer,  or  other  wild  creature. 

The  summit  of  Bald  Mountain  was  the  most  im- 
pressive mountain-top  I  had  ever  seen,  mainly,  per- 
haps, because  it  was  one  enormous  crown  of  nearly 
naked  granite.  The  rock  had  that  gray,  elemental, 
eternal  look  which  granite  alone  has.  One  seemed  to 
be  face  to  face  with  the  gods  of  the  fore-world.  Like 
an  atom,  like  a  breath  of  to-day,  we  were  suddenly 
confronted  by  abysmal  geologic  time,  —  the  eternities 
past  and  the  eternities  to  come.  The  enormous  cleav- 
age of  the  rocks,  the  appalling  cracks  and  fissures,  the 
rent  bowlders,  the  smitten  granite  floors,  gave  one  a 
new  sense  of  the  power  of  heat  and  frost.  In  one 
place  we  noticed  several  deep  parallel  grooves,  made 
by  the  old  glaciers.  In  the  depressions  on  the  sum- 
mit there  was  a  hard,  black,  peaty-like  soil  that  looked 


A  TASTE   OF  MAINE   BIRCH.  135 

indescribably  ancient  and  unfamiliar.  Out  of  this 
mould,  that  might  have  come  from  the  moon,  or  the 
interplanetary  spaces,  were  growing  mountain  cran- 
berries and  blueberries,  or  huckleberries.  We  were 
soon  so  absorbed  in  gathering  the  latter  that  we  were 
quite  oblivious  of  the  grandeurs  about  us.  It  is  these 
blueberries  that  attract  the  bears.  In  eating  them, 
Uncle  Nathan  said,  they  take  the  bushes  in  their 
mouths,  and  by  an  upward  movement  strip  them 
clean  of  both  leaves  and  berries.  We  were  con- 
stantly on  the  lookout  for  the  bears,  but  failed  to  see 
any.  Yet  a  few  days  afterward,  when  two  of  our 
party  returned  here  and  encamped  upon  the  moun- 
tain, they  saw  five  during  their  stay,  but  failed  to  get 
a  good  shot.  The  rifle  was  in  the  wrong  place  each 
time.  The  man  with  the  shot-gun  saw  an  old  bear 
and  two  cubs  lift  themselves  from  behind  a  rock  and 
twist  their  noses  around  for  his  scent,  and  then  shrink 
away.  They  were  too  far  off  for  his  buckshot.  I 
must  not  forget  the  superb  view  that  lay  before  us, 
a  wilderness  of  woods  and  waters  stretching  away  to 
the  horizon  on  every  hand.  Nearly  a  dozen  lakes  and 
ponds  could  be  seen,  and  in  a  clearer  atmosphere  the 
foot  of  Moosehead  Lake  would  have  been  visible. 
The  highest  and  most  striking  mountain  to  be  seen 
was  Mount  Bigelow,  rising  above  Dead  River,  far  to 
the  west,  and  its  two  sharp  peaks  notching  the  hori- 
zon like  enormous  saw-teeth.  We  walked  around  and 
viewed  curiously  a  huge  bowlder  on  the  top  of  the 
mountain  that  had  been  split  in  two  vertically,  and 


136  A   TASTE   OF  MAINE  BIRCH. 

one  of  the  halves  moved  a  few  feet  out  of  its  bed.  It 
looked  recent  and  familiar,  but  suggested  gods  instead 
of  men.  The  force  that  moved  the  rock  had  plainly 
come  from  the  north.  I  thought  of  a  similar  bowlder 
I  had  seen  not  long  before  on  the  highest  point  of  the 
Shaungunk  Mountains,  in  New  York,  one  side  of 
which  is  propped  up  with  a  large  stone,  as  wall- 
builders  prop  up  a  rock  to  wrap  a  chain  around  it. 
The  rock  seems  poised  lightly,  and  has  but  a  few 
points  of  bearing.  In  this  instance,  too,  the  power 
had  come  from  the  north. 

The  prettiest  botanical  specimen  my  trip  yielded 
was  a  little  plant  that  bears  the  ugly  name  of  horned 
bladderwort  (Utricularia  cornuta),  and  which  I 
found  growing  in  marshy  places  along  the  shores  of 
Moxie  Lake.  It  has  a  slender,  naked  stem  nearly  a 
foot  high,  crowned  by  two  or  more  large  deep  yellow 
flowers,  —  flowers  the  shape  of  little  bonnets  or  hoods. 
One  almost  expected  to  see  tiny  faces  looking  out  of 
them.  This  illusion  is  heightened  by  the  horn  or  spur 
of  the  flower,  which  projects  from  the  hood  like  a  long 
tapering  chin,  —  some  masker's  device.  Then  the 
cape  behind,  —  what  a  smart  upward  curve  it  has, 
as  if  spurned  by  the  fairy  shoulders  it  was  meant 
to  cover  !  But  perhaps  the  most  notable  thing 
about  the  flower  was  its  fragrance,  —  the  richest  and 
strongest  perfume  I  have  ever  found  in  a  wild  flower. 
This  our  botanist,  Gray,  does  not  mention,  as  if  one 
should  describe  the  lark  and  forget  its  song.  The  fra- 
grance suggested  that  of  white  clover,  but  was  more 
rank  and  spicy. 


A  TASTE  OF  MAINE   BIRCH.  137 

The  woods  about  Moxie  Lake  were  literally  carpeted 
with  Linncea.  I  had  never  seen  it  in  such  profusion. 
In  early  summer,  the  period  of  its  bloom,  what  a  charm- 
ing spectacle  the  mossy  floors  of  these  remote  woods 
must  present !  The  flowers  are  purple  rose-color,  nod- 
ding and  fragrant.  Another  very  abundant  plant  in 
these  woods  was  the  Clintonia  borealis.  Uncle  Na- 
than said  it  was  called  "  bear's  corn,"  though  he  did 
not  know  why.  The  only  noticeable  flower  by  the 
Maine  roadsides  at  this  season  that  is  not  common  in 
other  parts  of  the  country  is  the  harebell.  Its  bright 
blue,  bell-shaped  corolla  shone  out  from  amid  the 
dry  grass  and  weeds  all  along  the  route.  It  was 
one  of  the  most  delicate  roadside  flowers  I  had  ever 
seen. 

The  only  new  bird  I  saw  in  Maine  was  the  pileated 
woodpecker,  or  black  "log  cock,"  called  by  Uncle 
Nathan  "  wood  cock."  I  had  never  before  seen  or 
heard  this  bird,  and  its  loud  cackle  in  the  woods 
about  Moxie  was  a  new  sound  to  me.  It  is  the  wild- 
est and  largest  of  our  northern  woodpeckers,  and  the 
rarest.  Its  voice  and  the  sound  of  its  hammer  are 
heard  only  in  the  depths  of  the  northern  woods.  It 
is  about  as  large  as  a  crow,  and  nearly  as  black. 

We  stayed  a  week  at  Moxie,  or  until  we  became 
surfeited  with  its  trout,  and  had  killed  the  last  Mer- 
ganser duck  that,  lingered  about  our  end  of  the  lake. 
The  trout  that  had  accumulated  on  our  hands  we  had 
kept  alive  in  a  large  champagne  basket  submerged  in 
the  lake,  and  the  morning  we  broke  camp  the  basket 


138  A  TASTE   OF  MAINE  BIRCH. 

was  towed  to  the  shore  and  opened ;  and  after  we  had 
feasted  our  eyes  upon  the  superb  spectacle,  every 
trout,  twelve  or  fifteen  in  number,  some  of  them  two- 
pounders,  was  allowed  to  swim  back  into  the  lake. 
They  went  leisurely,  in  couples  and  in  trios,  and  were 
soon  kicking  up  their  heels  in  their  old  haunts.  I  ex- 
pect that  the  divinity  who  presides  over  Moxie  will 
see  to  it  that  every  one  of  those  trout,  doubled  in 
weight,  come  to  our  basket  in  the  future. 


WINTER  NEIGHBORS. 


WINTER  NEIGHBORS. 

THE  country  is  more  of  a  wilderness,  more  of  a 
wild  solitude,  in  the  winter  than  in  the  summer. 
The  wild  comes  out.  The  urban,  the  cultivated, 
is  hidden  or  negatived.  You  shall  hardly  know  a 
good  field  from  a  poor,  a  meadow  from  a  pasture, 
a  park  from  a  forest.  Lines  and  boundaries  are 
disregarded  ;  gates  and  bar-ways  are  unclosed  ;  man 
lets  go  his  hold  upon  the  earth ;  title-deeds  are  deep 
buried  beneath  the  snow  ;  -the  best-kept  grounds  re- 
lapse to  a  state  of  nature  ;  under  the  pressure  of 
the  cold  all  the  wild  creatures  become  outlaws,  and 
roam  abroad  beyond  their  usual  haunts.  The  par- 
tridge comes  to  the  orchard  for  buds ;  the  rabbit 
comes  to  the  garden  and  lawn ;  the  crows  and  jays 
come  to  the  ash-heap  and  corn-crib,  the  snow-buntings 
to  the  stack  and  to  the  barn-yard  ;  the  sparrows  pilfer 
from  the  domestic  fowls ;  the  pine  grosbeak  comes 
down  from  the  north  and  shears  your  maples  of  their 
buds ;  the  fox  prowls  about  your  premises  at  night, 
and  the  red  squirrels  find  your  grain  in  the  barn  or 
steal  the  butternuts  from  your  attic.  In  fact,  winter, 
like  some  great  calamity,  changes  the  status  of  most 
creatures,  and  sets  them  adrift.  Winter,  like  poverty, 
makes  us  acquainted  with  strange  bedfellows. 


142  WINTER  NEIGHBORS. 

For  my  part,  my  nearest  approach  to  a  strange 
bedfellow  is  the  little  gray  rabbit  that  has  taken  up 
her  abode  under  my  study  floor.  As  she  spends  the 
day  here  and  is  out  larking  at  night,  she  is  riot  much 
of  a  bedfellow,  after  all.  It  is  probable  that  I  dis- 
turb her  slumbers  more  than  she  does  mine.  I  think 
she  is  some  support  to  me  under  there  —  a  silent, 
wide-eyed  witness  and  backer ;  a  type  of  the  gentle 
and  harmless  in  savage  nature.  She  hag  no  sagacity 
to  give  me  or  lend  me,  but  that  soft,  nimble  foot  of 
hers,  and  that  touch  as  of  cotton  wherever  she  goes, 
are  worthy  of  emulation.  I  think  I  can  feel  her 
good-will  through  the  floor,  and  I  hope  she  can  mine. 
When  I  have  a  happy  thought  I  imagine  her  ears 
twitch,  especially  when  I  think  of  the  sweet  apple  I 
will  place  by  her  doorway  at  night.  I  wonder  if  that 
fox  chanced  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  the  other  night 
when  he  stealthily  leaped  over  the  fence  near  by  and 
walked  along  between  the  study  and  the  house  ? 
How  clearly  one  could  read  that  it  was  not  a  little 
dog  that  had  passed  there.  There  was  something 
furtive  in  the  track ;  it  shied  off  away  from  the  house 
and  around  it,  as  if  eying  it  suspiciously ;  and  then  it 
had  the  caution  and  deliberation  of  the  fox  —  bold, 
bold,  but  not  too  bold ;  wariness  was  in  every  foot- 
print. If  it  had  been  a  little  dog  that  had  chanced  to 
wander  that  way,  when  he  crossed  my  path  he  would 
have  followed  it  up  to  the  barn  and  have  gone  smell- 
ing around  for  a  bone  ;  but  this  sharp,  cautious  track 
held  straight  across  all  others,  keeping  five  or  six  rods 


from  the  house,  up  the  hill,  across  the  highway 
toward  a  neighboring  farmstead,  with  its  nose  in  the 
air  and  its  eye  and  ear  alert,  so  to  speak. 

A  winter  neighbor  of  mine  in  whom  I  am  inter- 
ested, and  who  perhaps  lends  me  his  support  after  his 
kind,  is  a  little  red  owl,  whose  retreat  is  in  the  heart 
of  an  old  apple-tree  just  over  the  fence.  Where  he 
keeps  himself  in  spring  and  summer  I  do  not  know, 
but  late  every  fall,  and  at  intervals  all  winter,  his 
hiding-place  is  discovered  by  the  jays  and  nut-hatches, 
and  proclaimed  from  the  tree-tops  for  the  space  of 
half  an  hour  or  so,  with  all  the  powers  of  voice  they 
can  command.  Four  times  during  one  winter  they 
called  me  out  to  behold  this  little  ogre  feigning  sleep 
in  his  den,  sometimes  in  one  apple-tree,  sometimes  in 
another.  Whenever  I  heard  their  cries,  I  knew  my 
neighbor  was  being  berated.  The  birds  would  take 
turns  at  looking  in  upon  him  and  uttering  their  alarm- 
notes.  Every  jay  within  hearing  would  come  to  the 
spot  and  at  once  approach  the  hole  in  the  trunk  or 
limb,  and  with  a  kind  of  breathless  eagerness  and  ex- 
citement take  a  peep  at  the  owl,  and  then  join  the 
outcry.  When  I  approached  they  would  hastily  take 
a  final  look  and  then  withdraw  and  regard  my  move- 
ments intently.  After  accustoming  my  eye  to  the 
faint  light  of  the  cavity  for  a  few  moments,  I  could 
usually  make  out  the  owl  at  the  bottom  feigning 
sleep.  Feigning,  I  say,  because  this  is  what  he  really 
did,  as  I  first  discovered  one  day  when  I  cut  into  his 
retreat  with  the  axe.  The  loud  blows  and  the  falling 


144  WINTER  NEIGHBORS. 

chips  did  not  disturb  him  at  all.  When  I  reached  in 
a  stick  and  pulled  him  over  on  his  side,  leaving  one  of 
his  wings  spread  out,  he  made  no  attempt  to  recover 
himself,  but  lay  among  the  chips  and  fragments  of  de- 
cayed wood,  like  a  part  of  themselves.  Indeed,  it  took 
a  sharp  eye  to  distinguish  him.  Not  till  I  had  pulled 
him  forth  by  one  wing,  rather  rudely,  did  he  abandon 
his  trick  of  simulated  sleep  or  death.  Then,  like  a 
detected  pickpocket,  he  was  suddenly  transformed 
into  another  creature.  His  eyes  flew  wide  open,  his 
talons  clutched  my  finger,  his  ears  were  depressed, 
and  every  motion  and  look  said,  "Hands  off,  at  your 
peril."  Finding  this  game  did  not  work,  he  soon 
began  to  "  play  'possum  "  again.  I  put  a  cover  over 
my  study  wood-box  and  kept  him  captive  for  a  week. 
Look  in  upon  him  at  any  time,  night  or  day,  and  he 
was  apparently  wrapped  in  the  prof oundest  slumber ; 
but  the  live  mice  which  I  put  into  his  box  from  time 
to  time  found  his  sleep  was  easily  broken ;  there 
would  be  a  sudden  rustle  in  the  box,  a  faint  squeak, 
and  then  silence.  After  a  week  of  captivity  I  gave 
him  his  freedom  in  the  full  sunshine :  no  trouble  for 
him  to  see  which  way  and  where  to  go. 

Just  at  dusk  in  the  winter  nights,  I  often  hear  his 
soft  bur-r^r-r,  very  pleasing  and  bell-like.  What  a 
furtive,  woody  sound  it  is  in  the  winter  stillness,  so 
unlike  the  harsh  scream  of  the  hawk.  But  all  the 
ways  of  the  owl  are  ways  of  sqftness  and  duskiness. 
His  wings  are  shod  with  silence,  his  plumage  is  edged 
with  down. 


WINTEB  NEIGHBORS.  145 

Another  owl  neighbor  of  mine,  with  whom  I  pass 
the  time  of  day  more  frequently  than  with  the  last, 
lives  farther  away.  I  pass  his  castle  every  night  on 
my  way  to  the  post  office,  and  in  winter,  if  the  hour 
is  late  enough,  am  pretty  sure  to  see  him  standing  in 
his  doorway,  surveying  the  passers-by  and  the  land- 
scape through  narrow  slits  in  his  eyes.  For  four  suc- 
cessive winters  now  have  I  observed  him.  As  the 
twilight  begins  to  deepen  he  rises  up  out  of  his  cavity 
in  the  apple-tree,  scarcely  faster  than  the  moon  rises 
from  behind  the  hill,  and  sits  in  the  opening,  com- 
pletely framed  by  its  outlines  of  gray  bark  and  dead 
wood,  and  by  his  protective  coloring  virtually  in- 
visible to  every  eye  that  does  not  know  he  is  there. 
Probably  my  own  is  the  only  eye  that  has  ever  pene- 
trated his  secret,  and  mine  never  would  have  done  so 
had  I  not  chanced  on  one  occasion  to  see  him  leave 
his  retreat  and  make  a  raid  upon  a  shrike  that  was 
impaling  a  shrew-mouse  upon  a  thorn  in  a  neighbor- 
ing tree,  and  which  I  was  watching.  Failing  to  get 
the  mouse,  the  owl  returned  swiftly  to  his  cavity,  and 
ever  since,  while  going  that  way,  I  have  been  on  the 
lookout  for  him.  Dozens  of  teams  and  foot-passen- 
gers pass  him  late  in  the  day,  but  he  regards  them 
not,  nor  they  him.  When  I  come  along  and  pause 
to  salute  him,  he  opens  his  eyes  a  little  wider,  and, 
appearing  to  recognize  me,  quickly  shrinks  and  fades 
into  the  background  of  his  door  in  a  very  weird  and 
curious  manner.  When  he  is  not  at  his  outlook,  or 
when  he  is,  it  requires  the  best  powers  of  the  eye  to 


146  WINTER  NEIGHBORS. 

decide  the  point,  as  the  empty  cavity  itself  is  almost 
an  exact  image  of  him.  If  the  whole  thing  had 
been  carefully  studied  it  could  not  have  answered  its 
purpose  better.  The  owl  stands  quite  perpendicular, 
presenting  a  front  of  light  mottled  gray ;  the  eyes  are 
closed  to  a  mere  slit,  the  ear-feathers  depressed,  the 
beak  buried  in  the  plumage,  and  the  whole  attitude  is 
one  of  silent,  motionless  waiting  and  observation.  If 
a  mouse  should  be  seen  crossing  the  highway,  or  scud- 
ding over  any  exposed  part  of  the  snowy  surface  in 
the  twilight,  the  owl  would  doubtless  swoop  down 
upon  it.  I  think  the  owl  has  learned  to  distinguish 
me  from  the  rest  of  the  passers-by ;  at  least,  when  I 
stop  before  him,  and  he  sees  himself  observed,  he 
backs  down  into  his  den,  as  I  have  said,  in  a  very 
amusing  manner.  Whether  bluebirds,  nut-hatches, 
and  chickadees  —  birds  that  pass  the  night  in  cavi- 
ties of  trees  —  ever  run  into  the  clutches  of  the  doz- 
ing owl,  I  should  be  glad  to  know.  My  impression 
is,  however,  that  they  seek  out  smaller  cavities.  An 
old  willow  by  the  roadside  blew  down  one  summer, 
and  a  decayed  branch  broke  open,  revealing  a  brood 
of  half-fledged  owls,  and  many  feathers  and  quills  of 
bluebirds,  orioles,  and  other  songsters,  showing  plainly 
enough  why  all  birds  fear  and  berate  the  owl. 

The  English  house  sparrows,  that  are  so  rapidly 
increasing  among  us,  and  that  must  add  greatly  to 
the  food  supply  of  the  owls  and  other  birds  of  prey, 
seek  to  baffle  their  enemies  by  roosting  in  the  densest 
evergreens  they  can  find,  in  the  arbor-vitas,  and  in 


WINTER  NEIGHBORS.  147 

hemlock  hedges.  Soft-winged  as  the  owl  is,  he  can- 
not steal  in  upon  such  a  retreat  without  giving  them 
warning. 

These  sparrows  are  becoming  about  the  most  no- 
ticeable of  my  winter  neighbors,  and  a  troop  of  them 
every  morning  watch  me  put  out  the  hens'  feed,  and 
soon  claim  their  share.  I  rather  encouraged  them 
in  their  neighborliness,  till  one  day  I  discovered  the 
snow  under  a  favorite  plum-tree  where  they  most 
frequently  perched  covered  with  the  scales  of  the 
fruit-buds.  On  investigating  I  found  that  the  tree 
had  been  nearly  stripped  of  its  buds  —  a  very  un- 
neighborly  act  on  the  part  of  the  sparrows,  consider- 
ing, too,  all  the  cracked  corn  I  had  scattered  for 
them.  So  I  at  once  served  notice  on  them  that  our 
good  understanding  was  at  an  end.  And  a  hint  is  as 
good  as  a  kick  with  this  bird.  The  stone  I  hurled 
among  them,  and  the  one  with  which  I  followed  them 
up,  may  have  been  taken  as  a  kick ;  but  they  were 
only  a  hint  of  the  shot-gun  that  stood  ready  in  the 
corner.  The  sparrows  left  in  high  dudgeon,  and 
were  not  back  again  in  some  days,  and  were  then 
very  shy.  No  doubt  the  time  is  near  at  hand  when 
we  shall  have  to  wage  serious  war  upon  these  spar- 
rows, as  they  long  have  had  to  do  on  the  continent  of 
Europe.  And  yet  it  will  be  hard  to  kill  the  little 
wretches,  the  only  Old  World  bird  we  have.  When  I 
take  down  my  gun  to  shoot  them  I  shall  probably  re- 
member that  the  Psalmist  said,  "  I  watch,  and  am  as 
a  sparrow  alone  upon  the  house-top,"  and  may  be  the 


148  WINTER  NEIGHBORS. 

recollection  will  cause  me  to  stay  my  hand.  The  spar- 
rows have  the  Old  World  hardiness  and  prolificness ; 
they  are  wise  and  tenacious  of  life,  and  we  shall  find 
it  by  and  by  no  small  matter  to  keep  them  in  check. 
Our  native  birds  are  much  different,  less  prolific,  less 
shrewd,  less  aggressive  and  persistent,  less  quick- 
witted and  able  to  read  the  note  of  danger  or  hos- 
tility, —  in  short  less  sophisticated.  Most  of  our 
birds  are  yet  essentially  wild,  that  is,  little  changed 
by  civilization.  In  winter,  especially,  they  sweep  by 
me  and  around  me  in  flocks,  —  the  Canada  sparrow, 
the  snow-bunting,  the  shore-lark,  the  pine  grosbeak, 
the  red-poll,  the  cedar-bird,  —  feeding  upon  frozen 
apples  in .  the  orchard,  upon  cedar-berries,  upon  ma- 
ple-buds, and  the  berries  of  the  mountain-ash,  and 
the  celtis,  and  upon  the  seeds  of  the  weeds  that  rise 
above  the  snow  in  the  field,  or  upon  the  hay-seed 
dropped  where  the  cattle  have  been  foddered  in  the 
barn-yard  or  about  the  distant  stack  ;  but  yet  tak- 
ing no  heed  of  man,  in  no  way  changing  their  hab- 
its so  as  to  take  advantage  of  his  presence  in  nature. 
The  pine  grosbeak  will  come  in  numbers  upon  your 
porch  to  get  the  black  drupes  of  the  honeysuckle  or 
the  woodbine,  or  within  reach  of  your  windows  to 
get  the  berries  of  the  mountain-ash,  but  they  know 
you  not ;  they  look  at  you  as  innocently  and  uncon- 
cernedly as  at  a  bear  or  moose  in  their  native  north, 
and  your  house  is  no  more  to  them  than  a  ledge  of 
rocks. 

The  only  ones  of  my  winter  neighbors  that  actu- 


WINTER  NEIGHBORS.  149 

ally  rap  at  my  door  are  the  nut-hatches  and  wood- 
peckers, and  these  do  not  know  that  it  is  my  door. 
My  retreat  is  covered  with  the  bark  of  young  chest- 
nut-trees, and  the  birds,  I  suspect,  mistake  it  for  a 
huge  stump  that  ought  to  hold  fat  grubs  (there  is  not 
*  even  a  book-worm  inside  of  it),  and  their  loud  rap- 
ping often  makes  me  think  I  have  a  caller  indeed.  I 
place  fragments  of  hickory-nuts  in  the  interstices  of 
the  bark,  and  thus  attract  the  nut-hatches ;  a  bone 
upon  my  window-sill  attracts  both  nut-hatches  and  the 
downy  woodpecker.  They  peep  in  curiously  through 
the  window  upon  me,  pecking  away  at  my  bone,  too 
often  a  very  poor  one.  A  bone  nailed  to  a  tree  a 
few  feet  in  front  of  the  window  attracts  crows  as  well 
as  lesser  birds.  Even  the  slate-colored  snow-bird,  a 
seed-eater,  comes  and  nibbles  it  occasionally. 

The  bird  that  seems  to  consider  he  has  the  best 
right  to  the  bone  both  upon  the  tree  and  upon  the 
sill  is  the  downy  woodpecker,  my  favorite  neighbor 
among  the  winter  birds,  to  whom  I  will  mainly  de- 
vote the  remainder  of  this  chapter.  His  retreat  is 
but  a  few  paces  from  my  own,  in  the  decayed  limb 
of  an  apple-tree  which  he  excavated  several  autumns 
ago.  I  say  "  he  "  because  the  red  plume  on  the  top 
of  his  head  proclaims  the  sex.  It  seems  not  to  be 
generally  known  to  our  writers  upon  ornithology  that 
certain  of  our  woodpeckers  —  probably  all  the  winter 
residents  —  each  fall  excavate  a  limb  or  the  trunk  of 
a  tree  in  which  to  pass  the  winter,  and  that  the  cav- 
ity is  abandoned  in  the  spring,  probably  for  a  new 


150  WINTER  NEIGHBORS. 

one  in  which  nidification  takes  place.  So  far  as  I 
have  observed,  these  cavities  are  drilled  out  only  by 
the  males.  Where  the  females  take  up  their  quar- 
ters I  am  not  so  well  informed,  though  I  suspect  that 
they  use  the  abandoned  holes  of  the  males  of  the 
previous  year. 

The  particular  woodpecker  to  which  I  refer  drilled 
his  first  hole  in  my  apple-tree  one  fall  four  or  five 
years  ago.  This  he  occupied  till  the  following  spring, 
when  he  abandoned  it.  The  next  fall  he  began  a  hole 
in  an  adjoining  limb,  later  than  before,  and  when  it 
was  about  half  completed  a  female  took  possession  of 
his  old  quarters.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  this  seemed 
to  enrage  the  male  very  much,  and  he  persecuted  the 
poor  bird  whenever  she  appeared  upon  the  scene.  He 
would  fly  at  her  spitefully  and  drive  her  off.  One 
chilly  November  morning,  as  I  passed  under  the  tree, 
I  heard  the  hammer  of  the  little  architect  in  his  cav- 
ity, and  at  the  same  time  saw  the  persecuted  female 
sitting  at  the  entrance  of  the  other  hole  as  if  she  would 
fain  come  out.  She  was  actually  shivering,  probably 
from  both  fear  and  cold.  I  understood  the  situation 
at  a  glance  ;  the  bird  was  afraid  to  come  forth  and 
brave  the  anger  of  the  male.  Not  till  I  had  rapped 
smartly  upon  the  limb  with  my  stick  did  she  come 
out  and  attempt  to  escape  ;  but  she  had  not  gone  ten 
feet  from  the  tree  before  the  male  was  in  hot  pur- 
suit, and  in  a  few  moments  had  driven  her  back  to 
the  same  tree,  where  she  tried  to  avoid  him  among 
the  branches.  A  few  days  after,  he  rid  himself  of 


WINTER  NEIGHBORS.  151 

his  unwelcome  neighbor  in  the  following  ingenious 
manner :  he  fairly  scuttled  the  other  cavity ;  he 
drilled  a  hole  into  the  bottom  of  it  that  let  in  the 
light  and  the  cold,  and  I  saw  the  female  there  no 
more.  I  did  not  see  him  in  the  act  of  rendering  this 
tenement  uninhabitable  ;  but  one  morning,  behold  it 
was  punctured  at  the  bottom,  and  the  circumstances 
all  seemed  to  point  to  him  as  the  author  of  it.  There 
is  probably  no  gallantry  among  the  birds  except  at 
the  mating  season.  I  have  frequently  seen  the  male 
woodpecker  drive  the  female  away  from  the  bone 
upon  the  tree.  When  she  hopped  abound  to  the  other 
end  and  timidly  nibbled  it,  he  would  presently  dart 
spitefully  at  her.  She  would  then  take  up  her  posi- 
tion in  his  rear  and  wait  till  he  had  finished  his  meal. 
The  position  of  the  female  among  the  birds  is  very 
much  the  same  as  that  of  woman  among  savage 
tribes.  Most  of  the  drudgery  of  life  falls  upon  her, 
and  the  leavings  of  the  males  are  often  her  lot. 

My  bird  is  a  genuine  little  savage,  doubtless,  but  I 
value  him  as  a  neighbor.  It  is  a  satisfaction  during 
the  cold  or  stormy  winter  nights  to  know  he  is  warm 
and  cozy  there  in  his  retreat.  When  the  day  is  bad 
and  unfit  to  be  abroad  in,  he  is  there  too.  When  I 
wish  to  know  if  he  is  at  home,  I  go  and  rap  upon  his 
tree,  and,  if  he  is  not  too  lazy  or  indifferent,  after 
some  delay  he  shows  his  head  in  his  round  doorway 
about  ten  feet  above,  and  looks  down  inquiringly 
upon  me  —  sometimes  latterly  I  think  half  resent- 
fully, as  much  as  to  say,  "  I  would  thank  you  not  to 


152  WINTER   NEIGHBORS. 

disturb  me  so  often."  After  sundown,  he  will  not 
put  his  head  out  any  more  when  I  call,  but  as  I  step 
away  I  can  get  a  glimpse  of  him  inside  looking  cold 
and  reserved.  He  is  a  late  riser,  especially  if  it  is  a 
cold  or  disagreeable  morning,  in  this  respect  being 
like  the  barn  fowls ;  it  is  sometimes  near  nine  o'clock 
before  I  see  him  leave  his  tree.  On  the  other  hand, 
he  conies  home  early,  being  in  if  the  day  is  unpleas- 
ant by  four  P.  M.  He  lives  all  alone  ;  in  this  respect 
I  do  not  commend  his  example.  Where  his  mate  is 
I  should  like  to  know. 

I  have  discovered  several  other  woodpeckers  in 
adjoining  orchards,  each  of  which  has  a  like  home 
and  leads  a  like  solitary  life.  One  of  them  has  ex- 
cavated a  dry  limb  within  easy  reach  of  my  hand, 
doing  the  work  also  in  September.  But  the  choice 
of  tree  was  not  a  good  one ;  the  limb  was  too  much 
decayed,  and  the  workman  had  made  the  cavity  too 
large  ;  a  chip  had  come  out,  making  a  hole  in  the 
outer  wall.  Then  he  went  a  few  inches  down  the 
limb  and  began  again,  and  excavated  a  large,  commo- 
dious chamber,  but  had  again  come  too  near  the  sur- 
face ;  scarcely  more  than  the  bark  protected  him  in 
one  place,  and  the  limb  was  very  much  weakened. 
Then  he  made  another  attempt  still  farther  down  the 
limb,  and  drilled  in  an  inch  or  two,  but  seemed  to 
change  his  mind ;  the  work  stopped,  and  I  concluded 
the  bird  had  wisely  abandoned  the  tree.  Passing 
there  one  cold,  rainy  November  day,  I  thrust  in  my 
two  fingers  and  was  surprised  to  feel  something 


WINTER  NEIGHBORS.  153 

soft  and  warm :  as  I  drew  away  my  hand  the  hird 
came  out,  apparently  no  more  surprised  than  I  was. 
It  had  decided,  then,  to  make  its  home  in  the  old 
limb  ;  a  decision  it  had  occasion  to  regret,  for  not 
long  after,  on  a  stormy  night,  the  branch  gave  way 
and  fell  to  the  ground. 

"  When  the  bough  breaks  the  cradle  will  fall, 
And  down  will  come  baby,  cradle  and  all." 

Such  a  cavity  makes  a  snug,  warm  home,  and  when 
the  entrance  is  on  the  under  side  of  the  limb,  as  is 
usual,  the  wind  and  snow  cannot  reach  the  occupant. 
Late  in  December,  while  crossing  a  high,  wooded 
mountain,  lured  by  the  music  of  fox-hounds,  I  dis- 
covered fresh  yellow  chips  strewing  the  new-fallen 
snow,  and  at  once  thought  of  my  woodpeckers.  On 
looking  around  I  saw  where  one  had  been  at  work 
excavating  a  lodge  in  a  small  yellow  birch.  The 
orifice  was  about  fifteen  feet  from  the  ground,  and 
appeared  as  round  as  if  struck  with  a  compass.  It 
was  on  the  east  side  of  the  tree,  so  as  to  avoid  the 
prevailing  west  and  northwest  winds.  As  it  was 
nearly  two  inches  in  diameter,  it  could  not  have  been 
the  work  of  the  downy,  but  must*  have  been  that  of 
the  hairy,  or  else  the  yellow-bellied  woodpecker.  His 
home  had  probably  been  wrecked  by  some  violent 
wind,  and  he  was  thus  providing  himself  another.  In 
digging  out  these  retreats  the  woodpeckers  prefer  a 
dry,  brittle  trunk,  not  too  soft.  They  go  in  hori- 
zontally to  the  centre  and  then  turn  downward,  en- 


154  WINTER  NEIGHBORS. 

larging  the  tunnel  as  they  go,  till  when  finished  it  is 
the  shape  of  a  long,  deep  pear. 

Another  trait  our  woodpeckers  have  that  endears 
them  to  me,  and  that  has  never  been  pointedly  no- 
ticed by  our  ornithologists,  is  their  habit  of  drumming 
in  the  spring.  They  are  songiess  birds,  and  yet  all 
are  musicians  ;  they  make  the  dry  limbs  eloquent  of 
the  coming  change.  Did  you  think  that  loud,  sono- 
rous hammering  which  proceeded  from  the  orchard 
or  from  the  near  woods  on  that  still  March  or  April 
morning  was  only  some  bird  getting  its  breakfast  ? 
It  is  downy,  but  he  is  not  rapping  at  the  door  of  a 
grub  ;  he  is  rapping  at  the  door  of  spring,  and  the 
dry  limb  thrills  beneath  the  ardor  of  his  blows.  Or, 
later  in  the  season,  in  the  dense  forest  or  by  some 
remote  mountain  lake,  does  that  measured  rhythmic 
beat  that  breaks  upon  the  silence,  first  three  strokes 
following  each  other  rapidly,  succeeded  by  two  louder 
ones  with  longer  intervals  between  them,  and  that 
has  an  effect  upon  the  alert  ear  as  if  the  solitude 
itself  had  at  last  found  a  voice  —  does  that  suggest 
anything  less  than  a  deliberate  musical  performance  ? 
In  fact,  our  woodpeckers  are  just  as  characteristically 
drummers  as  is  the" ruffed  grouse,  and  they  have  their 
particular  limbs  and  stubs  to  which  they  resort  for 
that  purpose.  Their  need  of  expression  is  apparently 
just  as  great  as  that  of  the  song-birds,  and  it  is  not 
surprising  that  they  should  have  found  out  that  there 
is  music  in  a  dry,  seasoned  limb  which  can  be  evoked 
beneath  their  beaks. 


WINTER  NEIGHBORS.  155 

A  few  seasons  ago  a  downy  woodpecker,  probably 
the  individual  one  who  is  now  my  winter  neighbor, 
began  to  drum  early  in  March  in  a  partly  decayed 
apple-tree  that  stands  in  the  edge  of  a  narrow  strip 
of  woodland  near  me.  When  the  morning  was  still 
and  mild  I  would  often  hear  him  through  my  window 
before  I  was  up,  or  by  half-past  six  o'clock,  and  he 
would  keep  it  up  pretty  briskly  till  nine  or  ten  o'clock, 
in  this  respect  resembling  the  grouse,  which  do  most 
of  their  drumming  in  the  forenoon.  His  drum  was 
the  stub  of  a  dry  limb  about  the  size  of  one's  wrist. 
The  heart  was  decayed  and  gone,  but  the  outer  shell 
was  hard  and  resonant.  The  bird  would  keep  his 
position  there  for  an  hour  at  a  time.  Between  his 
drummings  he  would  preen  his  plumage  and  listen  as 
if  for  the  response  of  the  female,  or  for  the  drum  of 
some  rival.  How  swift  his  head  would  go  when  he 
was  delivering  his  blows  upon  the  limb  !  His  beak 
wore  the  surface  perceptibly.  When  he  wished  to 
change  the  key,  which  was  quite  often,  he  would  shift 
his  position  an  inch  or  two  to  a  knot  which  gave  out 
a  higher,  shriller  note.  When  I  climbed  up  to  ex- 
amine his  drum  he  was  much  disturbed.  I  did  not 
know  he  was  in  the  vicinity,  but  it  seems  he  saw  me 
from  a  near  tree,  and  came  in  haste  to  the  neighbor- 
ing branches,  and  with  spread  plumage  and  a  sharp 
note  demanded  plainly  enough  what  my  business  was 
with  his  drum.  I  was  invading  his  privacy,  desecrat- 
ing his  shrine,  and  the  bird  was  much  put  out.  After 
some  weeks  the  female  appeared ;  he  had  literally 


156  WINTER  NEIGHBORS. 

drummed  up  a  mate  ;  his  urgent  and  oft-repeated 
advertisement  was  answered.  Still  the  drumming 
did  not  cease,  but  was  quite  as  fervent  as  before.  If 
a  mate  could  be  won  by  drumming  she  could  be  kept 
and  entertained  by  more  drumming ;  courtship  should 
not  end  with  marriage.  If  the  bird  felt  musical  be- 
fore, of  course  he  felt  much  more  so  now.  Besides 
that,  the  gentle  deities  needed  propitiating  in  behalf 
of  the  nest  and  young  as  well  as  in  behalf  of  the 
mate.  After  a  time  a  second  female  came,  when 
there  was  war  between  the  two.  I  did  not  see  them 
come  to  blows,  but  I  saw  one  female  pursuing  the 
other  about  the  place,  and  giving  her  no  rest  for 
several  days.  She  was  evidently  trying  to  run  her 
out  of  the  neighborhood.  Now  and  then,  she,  too, 
would  drum  briefly,  as  if  sending  a  triumphant  mes- 
sage to  her  mate. 

The  woodpeckers  do  not  each  have  a  particular  dry 
limb  to  which  they  resort  at  all  times  to  drum,  like 
the  one  I  have  described.  The  woods  are  full  of 
suitable  branches,  and  they  drum  more  or  less  here 
and  there  as  they  are  in  quest  of  food ;  yet  I  am  con- 
vinced each  one  has  its  favorite  spot,  like  the  grouse, 
to  which  it  resorts  especially  in  the  morning.  The 
sugar-maker  in  the  maple-woods  may  notice  that  this 
sound  proceeds  from  the  same  tree  or  trees  about  his 
camp  with  great  regularity.  A  woodpecker  in  my  vi- 
cinity has  drummed  for  two  seasons  on  a  telegraph- 
pole,  and  he  makes  the  wires  and  glass  insulators  ring. 
Another  drums  on  a  thin  board  on  the  end  of  a  long 


WINTER  NEIGHBORS.  157 

grape-arbor,  and  on  still  mornings  can  be  heard  a 
long  distance. 

A  friend  of  mine  in  a  Southern  city  tells  me  of  a 
red-headed  woodpecker  that  drums  upon  a  lightning- 
rod  on  his  neighbor's  house.  Nearly  every  clear,  still 
morning  at  certain  seasons,  he  says,  this  musical  rap- 
ping may  be  heard.  "  He  alternates  his  tapping  with 
his  stridulous  call,  and  the  effect  on  a  cool,  autumn- 
like  morning  is  very  pleasing." 

The  high-hole  appears  to  drum  more  promiscu- 
ously than  does  downy.  He  utters  his  long,  loud 
spring  call,  which  —  whick  —  which  —  whick,  and 
then  begins  to  rap  with  his  beak  upon  his  perch  be- 
fore the  last  note  has  reached  your  ear.  I  have  seen 
him  drum  sitting  upon  the  ridge  of  the  barn.  The 
log  cock,  or  pileated  woodpecker,  the  largest  and 
wildest  of  our  Northern  species,  I  have  never  heard 
drum.  His  blows  should  wake  the  echoes. 

When  the  woodpecker  is  searching  for  food,  or 
laying  siege  to  some  hidden  grub,  the  sound  of  his 
hammer  is  dead  or  muffled,  and  is  heard  but  a  few 
yards.  It  is  only  upon  dry,  seasoned  timber,  freed 
of  its  bark,  that  he  beats  his  reveille  to  spring  and 
woos  his  mate. 

Wilson  was  evidently  familiar  with  this  vernal 
drumming  of  the  woodpeckers,  but  quite  misinter- 
prets it.  Speaking  of  the  red-bellied  species,  he  says  : 
"  It  rattles  like  the  rest  of  the  tribe  on  the  dead 
limbs,  and  with  such  violence  as  to  be  heard  in  still 
weather  more  than  half  a  mile  off ;  and  listens  to 


158  WINTER  NEIGHBORS. 

hear  the  insect  it  has  alarmed."  He  listens  rather  to 
hear  the  drum  of  his  rival  or  the  brief  and  coy  re- 
sponse of  the  female  ;  for  there  are  no  insects  in  these 
dry  limbs. 

On  one  occasion  I  saw  downy  at  his  drum  when  a 
female  flew  quickly  through  the  tree  and  alighted  a 
few  yards  beyond  him.  He  paused  instantly,  and 
kept  his  place  apparently  without  moving  a  muscle. 
The  female,  I  took  it,  had  answered  his  advertise- 
ment. She  flitted  about  from  limb  to  limb  (the 
female  may  be  known  by  the  absence  of  the  crimson 
spot  on  the  back  of  the  head),  apparently  full  of 
business  of  her  own,  and  now  and  then  would  drum 
in  a  shy,  tentative  manner.  The  male  watched  her 
a  few  moments,  and,  convinced  perhaps  that  she 
meant  business,  struck  up  his  liveliest  tune,  then  list- 
ened for  her  response.  As  it  came  back  timidly  but 
promptly,  he  left  his  perch  and  sought  a  nearer  ac- 
quaintance with  the  prudent  female.  Whether  or 
not  a  match  grew  out  of  this  little  flirtation  I  cannot 
say. 

Our  smaller  woodpeckers  are  sometimes  accused 
of  injuring  the  apple  and  other  fruit  trees,  but  the 
depredator  is  probably  the  larger  and  rarer  yellow- 
bellied  species.  One  autumn  I  caught  one  of  these 
fellows  in  the  act  of  sinking  long  rows  of  his  little 
wells  in  the  limb  of  an  apple-tree.  There  were  series 
of  rings  of  them,  one  above  another,  quite  around 
the  stem,  some  of  them  the  third  of  an  inch  across. 
They  are  evidently  made  to  get  at  the  tender,  juicy 


WINTER  NEIGHBORS.  159 

bark,  or  cambium  layer,  next  to  the  hard  wood  of  the 
tree.  The  health  and  vitality  of  the  branch  are  so 
seriously  impaired  by  them  that  it  often  dies. 

In  the  following  winter  the  same  bird  (probably) 
tapped  a  maple-tree  in  front  of  my  window  in  fifty- 
six  places  ;  and  when  the  day  was  sunny,  and  the 
sap  oozed  out,  he  spent  most  of  his  time  there.  He 
knew  the  good  sap-days,  and  was  on  hand  promptly 
for  his  tipple ;  cold  and  cloudy  days  he  did  not  ap- 
pear. He  knew  which  side  of  the  tree  to  tap,  too, 
and  avoided  the  sunless  northern  exposure.  When 
one  series  of  well-holes  failed  to  supply  him,  he'  would 
sink  another,  drilling  through  the  bark  with  great 
ease  and  quickness.  Then,  when  the  day  was  warm, 
and  the  sap  ran  freely,  he  would  have  a  regular  sugar- 
maple  debauch,  sitting  there  by  his  wells  hour  after 
hour,  and  as  fast  as  they  became  filled  sipping  out 
the  sap.  This  he  did  in  a  gentle,  caressing  manner 
that  was  very  suggestive.  He  made  a  row  of  wells 
near  the  foot  of  the  tree,  and  other  rows  higher  up, 
and  he  would  hop  up  and  down  the  trunk  as  these 
became  filled.  He  would  hop  down  the  tree  back- 
ward with  the  utmost  ease,  throwing  his  tail  outward 
and  his  head  inward  at  each  hop.  When  the  wells 
would  freeze  up  or  his  thirst  become  slaked,  he 
would  ruffle  his  feathers,  draw  himself  together,  and 
sit  and  doze  in  the  sun  on  the  side  of  the  tree.  He 
passed  the  night  in  a  hole  in  an  apple-tree  not  far  off. 
He  was  evidently  a  young  bird,  not  yet  having  the 
plumage  of  the  mature  male  or  female,  and  yet  he 


160  WINTER   NEIGHBORS. 

knew  which  tree  to  tap  and  where  to  tap  it.  I  saw 
where  he  had  bored  several  maples  in  the  vicinity, 
but  no  oaks  or  chestnuts.  I  nailed  up  a  fat  bone 
near  his  sap-works :  the  downy  woodpecker  came 
there  several  times  a  day  to  dine  ;  the  nut-hatch  came, 
and  even  the  snow-bird  took  a  taste  occasionally  ;  but 
this  sap-sucker  never  touched  it;  the  sweet  of  the 
tree  sufficed  for  him.  This  woodpecker  does  not 
breed  or  abound  in  my  vicinity;  only  stray  speci- 
mens are  now  and  then  to  be  met  with  in  the  colder 
months.  As  spring  approached,  the  one  I  refer  to 
took  his  departure. 

I  must  bring  my  account  of  my  neighbor  in  the  tree 
down  to  the  latest  date  ;  so  after  the  lapse  of  a  year 
I  add  the  following  notes.  The  last  day  of  February 
was  bright  and  springlike.  I  heard  the  first  sparrow 
sing  that  morning  and  the  first  screaming  of  the  cir- 
cling hawks,  and  about  seven  o'clock  the  first  drum- 
ming of  my  little  friend.  His  first  notes  were  un- 
certain and  at  long  intervals,  but  by  and  by  he  warmed 
up  and  beat  a  lively  tattoo.  As  the  season  advanced 
he  ceased  to  lodge  in  his  old  quarters.  I  would  rap 
and  find  nobody  at  home.  Was  he  out  on  a  lark,  I 
said,  the  spring  fever  working  in  his  blood  ?  After  a 
time  his  drumming  grew  less  frequent,  and  finally,  in 
the  middle  of  April,  ceased  entirely.  Had  some  ac- 
cident befallen  him,  or  had  he  wandered  away  to 
fresh  fields,  following  some  siren  of  his  species? 
Probably  the  latter.  Another  bird  that  I  had  under 
observation  also  left  his  winter-quarters  in  the  spring. 


WINTER  NEIGHBORS.  161 

This,  then,  appears  to  be  the  usuaf-ittito*».-  "The 
wrens  and  the  nut-hatches  and  chickadees  succeed  to 
these  abandoned  cavities,  and  often  have  amusing 
disputes  over  them.  The  nut-hatches  frequently  pass 
the  night  in  them,  and  the  wrens  and  chickadees  nest 
in  them.  I  have  further  observed  that  in  excavating 
a  cavity  for  a  nest  the  downy  woodpecker  makes  the 
entrance  smaller  than  when  he  is  excavating  his  whi- 
ter-quarters. This  is  doubtless  for  the  greater  safety 
of  the  young  birds. 

The  next  fall,  the  downy  excavated  another  limb 
in  the  old  apple-tree,  but  had  not  got  his  retreat  quite 
finished,  when  the  large  hairy  woodpecker  appeared 
upon  the  scene.  I  heard  his  loud  click,  click,  early 
one  frosty  November  morning.  There  was  some- 
thing impatient  and  angry  in  the  tone  that  arrested 
my  attention.  I  saw  the  bird  fly  to  the  tree  where 
downy  had  been  at  work,  and  fall  with  great  vio- 
lence upon  the  entrance  to  his  cavity.  The  bark 
and  the  chips  flew  beneath  his  vigorous  blows,  and 
before  I  fairly  woke  up  to  what  he  was  doing,  he  had 
completely  demolished  the  neat,  round  doorway  of 
downy.  He  had  made  a  large  ragged  opening  large 
enough  for  himself  to  enter.  I  drove  him  away  and 
my  favorite  came  back,  but  only  to  survey  the  ruins 
of  his  castle  for  a  moment  and  then  go  away.  He 
lingered  about  for  a  day  or  two  and  then  disappeared. 
The  big  hairy  usurper  passed  a  night  in  the  cavity, 
but  on  being  hustled  out  of  it  the  next  night  by  me, 
he  also  left,  but  not  till  he  had  demolished  the  en- 


162  WINTER  NEIGHBORS. 

trance  to  a  cavity  in  a  neighboring  tree  where  downy 
and  his  mate  had  reared  their  brood  that  summer, 
and  where  I  had  hoped  the  female  would  pass  the 
winter. 


A  SALT   BREEZE. 


A  SALT  BREEZE. 

WHEN  one  first  catches  the  smell  of  the  sea,  his 
lungs  seem  involuntarily  to  expand,  the  same  as  they 
do  when  he  steps  into  the  open  air  after  long  confine- 
ment indoors.  On  the  beach  he  is  simply  emerging 
into  a  larger  and  more  primitive  out-of-doors.  There 
before  him  is  aboriginal  space,  and  the  breath  of  it 
thrills  and  dilates  his  body.  He  stands  at  the  open 
door  of  the  continent  and  eagerly  drinks  the  large  air. 
This  breeze  savors  of  the  original  element;  it  is  a 
breath  out  of  the  morning  of  the  world,  —  bitter,  but 
so  fresh  and  tonic  !  He  has  taken  salt  grossly  and  at 
second-hand  all  his  days  ;  now  let  him  inhale  it  at  the 
fountain-head,  and  let  its  impalpable  crystals  penetrate 
his  spirit,  and  prick  and  chafe  him  into  new  activity. 

We  Americans  are  great  eaters  of  salt,  probably 
the  largest  eaters  of  salt  and  drinkers  of  water  of  any 
of  the  civilized  peoples  ;  the  amount  of  the  former 
consumed  annually  per  capita  being  more  than  double 
the  amount  consumed  in  England  and  on  the  Conti- 
nent ;  and  the  quantity  of  water  (with  ice  in  it)  we 
drink  is  in  still  greater  proportions*  Our  dry  climate 
calls  for  the  water,  and  probably  our  nervous,  dys- 
peptic tendencies  for  the  salt.  Hence  our  need,  as  a 
people,  of  that  great  tonic  and  sedative,  the  seashore. 


166  A  SALT  BREEZE. 

In  Biblical  times,  new-born  babies  were  rubbed  with 
salt.  I  suppose  it  stimulated  them  and  quickened 
their  circulation.  American  babies  are  not  thus 
rubbed,  and  there  comes  a  time  with  most  of  us 
when  we  feel  that  the  operation  cannot  be  put  off 
any  longer,  and  we  rush  down  to  the  sea  to  have  the 
service  performed  by  the  old  nurse  herself,  and  the 
pores  of  both  mind  and  body  well  cleansed  and 
opened. 

Nothing  about  the  sea  is  more  impressive  than  its 
ceaseless  rocking.  Without  either  wind  or  tide,  it 
would  probably  be  restless  and  oscillating,  because  it 
registers  and  passes  along  the  fluctuations  of  the 
earthy  crust.  The  solid  ground  is  only  relatively 
solid.  The  scientists,  under  the  direction  of  the 
British  Association,  who  sought  to  determine  the  in- 
fluence of  the  moon  upon  the  earth's  crust,  found,  as 
soon  as  their  instruments  were  delicate  enough  to  reg- 
ister the  influence  of  that  body,  many  other  agencies 
at  work.  They  could  find  no  really  solid  spot  to 
plant  their  instruments  upon.  Thus,  over  the  area 
of  a  high  barometer,  the  earth's  crust  bent  beneath 
the  weight  of  the  column  of  air.  At  sea  the  waters 
are  pressed  down.  The  waves  of  the  atmospheric 
ocean,  as  they  sweep  around  the  earth  in  vast  alter- 
nations, cause  both  land  and  water  to  rise  and  fall  as 
beneath  the  tread  of  some  striding  Colossus.  This 
unequal  barometric  pressure  over  the  Atlantic  area 
would,  doubtless,  of  itself  keep  its  equilibrium  per- 
petually disturbed.  Thus,  "  the  cradle  endlessly  rock- 


A   SALT   BREEZE.  167 

ing,"  of  which  our  poet  sings,  is  not  only  bestrode  by 
the  winds  and  swung  by  the  punctual  hand  of  the 
tides,  but  the  fairest  summer  weather  gives  it  a 
nudge,  and  the  bending  floor  beneath  it  contributes 
an  impulse.  Its  rocking  is  secured  beyond  peradven- 
ture.  Darwin  seems  to  think  it  is  the  cradle  where 
the  primordial  life  of  the  globe  had  its  infancy,  —  a 
conclusion  of  science  anticipated  by  an  old  Greek  poet 

who  said, 

"  Ocean,  father  of  gods  and  men." 

Whether  or  not  it  rocked  man,  or  the  germ  of  man, 
into  being,  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  it  will  con- 
tinue to  rock  after  he  and  all  things  else  are  wrapped 
in  the  final  sleep. 

Its  grandest  swing,  I  found  during  a  couple  of 
weeks'  sojourn  upon  the  coast,  is  often  upon  a  fair 
day.  Local  winds  and  storms  make  it  spiteful  and 
angry.  They  break  up  and  scatter  the  waves ;  but 
some  quiet  morning  you  saunter  down  to  the  beach 
and  find  the  sea  beating  its  long  roll.  The  waves 
run  parallel  to  the  shore  and  come  in  with  great  reg- 
ularity and  deliberation,  falling  upon  it  in  a  succession 
of  long,  low  cataracts,  and  you  realize  the  force  of  the 
Homeric  epithet,  "  the  far-resounding  sea."  It  is  a 
sort  of  prostrate  Niagara  expiring  in  intermittent  tor- 
rents. Often  there  is  a  marked  explosion  from  the 
compression  of  the  air  in  the  hollow  cylinder  of  the 
curling  wave.  These  long  swells  are  of  the  character 
of  those  which  in  the  Hudson  follow  the  passage  of 
one  of  the  great  steamers,  —  large,  measured,  uniform. 


168  A  SALT   BREEZE. 

Something  here  has  passed,  probably  a  cyclone  far  at 
sea ;  and  these  breakers,  with  their  epic  swing,  are 
the  echo  of  its  retreating  footsteps. 

Nothing  is  more  singular  and  unexpected  to  the 
landsman  than  the  combing  of  the  waves,  —  a  momen- 
tary perpendicular  or  incurving  wall  of  water,  a  few 
yards  from  shore,  with  other  water  spilling  or  pouring 
over  it  as  over  a  mill-dam,  thus  exhibiting  for  an  in- 
stant a  clear,  perfectly-formed  cataract.  But  instantly 
the  wall  crumbles,  or  is  crushed  down,  and  in  place  of 
it  there  is  a  wild  caldron  of  foaming,  boiling  water 
and  sand. 

There  seems  to  be  something  more  cosmic,  or  shall 
I  say  astronomic,  in  the  sea  than  in  the  shore.  Here 
you  behold  the  round  back  of  the  globe :  the  lines  are 
planetary.  You  feel  that  here  is  the  true  surface  of 
the  sphere,  the  curving,  delicate  sides  of  this  huge 
bubble.  On  the  land,  amid  the  wrinkles  of  the  hills, 
you  have  place,  fixedness,  locality,  a  nook  in  the  chim- 
ney-corner ;  but  upon  the  sea  you  are  literally  adrift ; 
place  is  not,  boundaries  are  not,  space  is  vacant.  You 
are  upon  the  smooth  disk  of  the  planet,  like  a  man  be- 
striding the  moon.  Under  your  feet  runs  the  line  of 
the  earth's  rotundity,  and  round  about  you  the  same 
curve  bounds  your  vision. 

\  Then  the  sea  brings  us  nearer  that  time  when  the 
earth  was  without  form  and  void,  —  a  vast,  shoreless, 
and  therefore  voiceless,  sea.  You  look  upon  the  youth 
of  the  world  ;  there  is  no  age,  no  change,  no  decay 
here.  It  is  older  than  the  continents,  and,  in  a  meas- 


A  SALT   BREEZE.  169 

ure,  their  creator.  That  it  should  devour  them  again,f 
like  Saturn  his  children,  only  adds  to  our  sense  of  itS; 
mystery  and  power. 

The  sea  is  another  firmament.  The  land  is  fugi- 
tive :  it  abides  not.  Vast  areas  have  been  scalped  by 
the  winds  and  the  rains  ;  but  the  sea,  whose  law  is 
mutation,  changes  not ;  type  of  fickleness  and  insta- 
bility ;  yet  the  granite  crumbles,  and  it  remains  the 
same.  The  semicircle  that  bounds  your  view  seaward, 
and  that  travels  with  you  along  the  beach,  a  vast, 
liquid  crescent  or  half-moon,  upon  the  inner,  jagged 
edge  of  which  you  stand,  is  the  type  of  that  which 
changes  not,  which  neither  ends  nor  begins,  and  into 
which  all  form  and  all  being  merge. 

This  is  a  part  of  the  vague  fascination  of  the  shore ;  ] 
't  is  the  boundary  of  two  worlds.  With  your  feet  upon 
the  present,  you  confront  aboriginal  time  and  space. 
If  we  could  reach  the  point  in  the  horizon  where  the 
earth  and  sky  meet,  we  might  find  the  same  fascina- 
tion there.  In  the  absence  of  this  the  best  substitute 
is  the  beachl 

We  seemi  to  breathe  a  larger  air  on  the  coast.  It 
is  the  place  for  large  types,  large  thoughts.  'T  is  not 
farms,  or  a  township,  we  see  now,  but  God's  own  do- 
main. Possession,  ownership,  civilization,  boundary 
lines  cease,  and  there  within  reach  is  a  clear  page  of 
terrestrial  space,  as  unmarred  and  a§  unmarrable  as 
if  plucked  from  the  sidereal  heavens. 

How  inviting  and  adventurous  the  ships  look,  drop- 
ping behind  the  rim  of  the  horizon,  or  gently  blown 


170  A  SALT  BREEZE. 

along  its  edge,  their  yard-arras  pointing  to  all  quar- 
ters of  the  globe !  Mystery,  adventure,  the  promise 
of  unknown  lands,  beckon  to  us  from  the  full-rigged 
ships.  One  does  not  see  them  come  or  depart ;  they 
dawn  upon  him  like  his  own  thoughts,  some  dim  and 
shadowy,  just  hovering  on  the  verge  of  consciousness, 
others  white  and  full,  a  solace  to  the  eye.  But  pres- 
ently, while  you  ponder,  they  are  gone,  or  else  vaguely 
notch  the  horizon  line.  Illusion,  enchantment,  hover 
over  the  sail-ships.  They  have  the  charm  of  the  an- 
cient world  of  fable  and  romance.  They  are  blown 
by  Homeric  winds.  They  are  a  survival  from  the  re- 
motest times.  But  yonder  comes  a  black  steamship, 
cutting  across  this  enchanted  circle  in  defiance  of 
wind  and  tide ;  this  is  the  modern  world  snubbing 
and  dispelling  our  illusions,  and  putting  our  poets  to 
flight. 

But  the  veritable  oceanic  brine  there  before  one, 
the  continental,  primordial,  original  liquid,  the  hoary, 
eternal  sea  itself,  —  what  can  a  lover  of  fields  and 
woods  make  of  it  ?  None  of  the  charms  or  solace- 
ments  of  birds  and  flowers  here,  or  of  rural  sights 
and  sounds  ;  no  repose,  no  plaintiveness,  no  dumb 
companionship  ;  but|a  spirit  threatening,  hungering, 
remorseless,  decoying,  fascinating,  serpentine,  rebel- 
ling and  forever  rebelling  against  the  fiat,  "  Thus  far 
shalt  thou  come,  and  no  farther."  The  voice  of  the 
sea  is  unlike  any  other  sound  in  nature ;  more  riant 
and  chafing  than  any  roar  of  woods  or  storms.  One 
never  ceases  to  hear  the  briny,  rimy,  weltering  qual- 


A   SALT   BREEZE.  171 

ity,  —  it  is  salt  to  the  ear  no  less  than  to  the  smell.] 
One  fancies  he  hears  the  friction  and  clashing  of  the 
invisible  crystals.  A  shooting  avalanche  of  snow 
might  have  this  frosty,  beaded,  anfractuous  sound. 
The  sands  and  pebbles  and  broken  shells  have  some- 
thing to  do  with  it ;  but  without  these  that  threaten- 
ing, serrated  edge  remains,  —  the  grainy,  saline  voice 
of  the  sea. 

'T  is  a  pity  the  fabulous  sea-serpent  is  not  a  reality. 
The  sea  seems  to  imply  such  a  monster,  swimming  as 
a  leech  swims,  with  vertical  undulations,  splitting  the 
waves,  or  reposing  across  them  in  vast  scaly  coils. 
There  is  something  in  the  sea  that  fills  the  imagina- 
tion of  men  with  the  image  of  these  things.  The  sea- 
serpent  will  always  be  seen  by  somebody,  because  the 
sea  itself  is  serpentine,  —  a  writhing,  crawling,  crested, 
glistening  saurian  with  the  globe  in  its  embrace.  How 
it  rises  up  and  darts  upon  you !  In  storms,  its  breath 
blackens  and  blights  the  shore  vegetation ;  it  devours 
the  beach  and  disgorges  it  again,  and  piles  the  shore 
with  foam,  like  masses  of  unwashed  wool.  Often  a 
hissing  sibilant  sound  seems  to  issue  from  under  the 
edge  of  the  bursting  wave.  Then  that  ever-recurring 
rustle  calls  up  a  vision  of  some  scaly  monster  uncoil- 
ing or  measuring  its  length  upon  the  sands.  I  was 
told  of  two  girls,  in  bathing-suits,  sitting  upon  the 
beach,  where  the  waves,  which  were  running  very 
high,  reached  them  with  only  their  laced  and  em- 
broidered edges  ;  then,  as  if  it  had  been  getting  ready 
for  a  spring,  a  huge  wave  rushed  up  and  snatched 


172  A  SALT   BREEZE. 

them  both  into  the  sea,  and  they  were  drowned.  In 
a  few  days  the  body  of  one  was  cast  up,  but  the  other 
was  never  seen  again.  Such  fawning,  such  treachery, 
are  in  the  waves. 

The  sea  shifts  its  pillow  like  an  uneasy  sleeper. 
The  contour  of  the  beach  is  seldom  two  days  alike ; 
that  round,  smooth  bolster  of  sand  is  at  times  very 
prominent.  The  waves  stroke  and  caress  it  and  slide 
their  delicate  sea-draperies  over  it,  as  if  they  were 
indeed  making  their  bed.  When  you  walk  there 
again  it  is  gone,  carried  down  under  the  waves,  and 
the  beach  is  low  and  naked. 

Both  the  sight  and  "the  sound  of  the  waves  fill  the 
mind  with  images.  One  thinks  of  rockets,  windrows, 
embroideries.  How  they  lift  themselves  up  and  grow 
tall  as  they  approach  the  shore !  They  are  entering 
shallower  water,  they  are  running  aground,  and  they 
rise  up  like  vessels. 

I  saw  little  in  the  waves  that  suggested  steeds,  but 
more  that  reminded  of  huge  sheep.  At  times  they 
would  come  wallowing  ashore  precisely  like  a  great 
flock  or  mob  of  woolly-headed  sheep  ;  the  wave  breaks 
far  out,  and  then  comes  that  rushing  line  of  tossing, 
leaping  woolly  heads  and  shoulders,  diminishing  as  it 
comes,  and  leaving  the  space  behind  it  strewn  with 
foam.  Sometimes  the  waves  look  like  revolving  cy- 
lindrical knives,  carving  the  coast.  Then  they  thrust 
up  their  thin,  crescent-shaped  edges,  like  reapers, 
reaping  only  shells  and  sand  ;  yet  one  seems  to  hear 
the  hiss  of  a  great  sickle,  the  crackle  of  stubble,  the 


A  SALT   BREEZE.  173 

rustle  of  sheaves,  and  the  screening  of  grain.  Then 
again  there  is  mimic  thunder  as  the  waves  burst, 
followed  by  a  sound  like  the  down-pouring  of  torrents 
of  rain.  How  it  shovels  the  sand  and  sifts  and  washes 
it  forever !  Every  particle  of  silt  goes  seaward  ;  it 
is  the  earth-pollen  with  which  the  sunken  floors  of 
the  sea  are  deeply  covered.  What  material  for  future 
continents,  new  worlds,  and  new  peoples,  is  hoarded 
within  its  sunless  depths  !  How  Darwin  longed  to 
read  the  sealed  book  of  the  earth's  history,  that  lies 
-buried  beneath  the  sea !  He  thought  it  probable  that 
the  first  continents  were  there  ;  that  the  areas  of  ele- 
vation and  of  subsidence  had  changed  places  in  the 
remote  past. 

Turning  over  the  collections  of  sea-poetry  in  the  li- 
braries, it  is  rare  enough  to  find  a  line  or  a  stanza  with 
the  real  savor  of  the  shore  in  it.  'T  is  mostly  fresh- 
water poetry,  very  pretty,  often  spirited  and  frothy,  but 
seldom  gritty,  saline,  and  elemental.  That  bearded, 
bristling  savage  quality  of  the  sea,  to  which  I  have 
referred,  you  shall  hardly  find  hinted  at,  except, 
perhaps,  in  Whitman,  who  is  usually  ignored  in  these 
anthologies.  Tennyson's  touches,  as  here  and  there 
in  "  Sea-dreams,"  always  satisfy,  and  one  chafes  that 
Shakespeare  should  have  left  so  little  on  the  subject. 

The  poets  makes  a  dead  set  at  the  vastness,  power, 
and  terror  of  the  sea,  and  take  their  fill  of  these  as- 
pects of  it.  'T  is  an  easy  theme,  and  soon  wearies. 
We  crave  the  verse  that  shall  give  us  the  taste  of  the 
salt  spray  upon  our  lips.  Bryant's  hymn  to  the  sea 


174  A   SALT   BREEZE. 

is  noble  and  stately,  but  it  is  only  his  forest  hymn 
shifted  to  the  shore.  It  touches  the  same  chords. 
It  has  no  marine  quality  or  atmosphere.  The  bitter- 
ness and  the  sweetness  of  the  sea,  as  of  a  celestial 
dragon  devouring  and  purifying,  are  not  in  it.  The 
poet  wings  his  lofty  flight  above  sea  and  shore  alike. 
When  Emerson  sings  of  the  sea,  there  is  more  savor, 
more  tonic  air,  a  closer  and  stronger  hold  upon  the 
subject ;  but  even  he  takes  refuge  in  the  vastness  of 
his  theme  and  speaks  through  the  imperial  voice  of 
the  sea :  — 

"  I  heard,  or  seemed  to  hear,  the  chiding  sea 
Say,  Pilgrim,  why  so  late  and  slow  to  come  ? 
Am  I  not  always  here,  thy  summer  home  ? 
Is  not  my  voice  thy  music,  morn  and  eve, 
My  breath  thy  healthful  climate  in  the  heats, 
My  touch  thy  antidote,  my  bay  thy  bath  ? 
Was  ever  building  like  my  terraces  ? 
Was  ever  couch  magnificent  as  mine  ?  " 

There  are  strong  lines  in  Rossetti's  "  Sea  Limits," 
but,  like  the  others,  it  is  a  far-off  idealization  of  the 
subject,  and  does  not  bring  one  nearer  the  sea. 

There  are  occasionally  good  descriptive  lines  in 
Miller,  as 

"I  crossed  the  hilly  sea." 

And  again,  — 

"The  ships,  black  bellied,  climb  the  sea." 

There  is  something  fresh  and  inviting  in  this  com- 
parison :  — • 

"  As  pure  as  sea-washed  sands." 


A  SALT   BREEZE.  175 

But  when  the  poet  of  the  Sierras  places  old  Nep- 
tune on  the  anxious  bench,  in  this  wise,  — 

"Behold  the  ocean  on  the  beach 
Kneel  lowly  down  as  if  in  prayer, 
I  hear  a  moan  as  of  despair, 
While  far  at  sea  do  toss  and  reach 
Some  things  so  like  white  pleading  hands," 

one  has  serious  qualms. 

The  breakers  usually  suggest  to  the  poets  rearing 
and  plunging  steeds,  as  in  Arnold  :  — 

"Now  the  wild  white  horses  play, 
Champ  and  chafe  and  toss  in  the  spray," 

and  Stedman's  spirited  poem,  "  Surf,"  makes  use  of 
the  same  image.  Byron,  in  "  Childe  Harold,"  lays 
his  hand  upon  the  "  mane  "  of  the  ocean.  Whitman 
recalling  the  shapes  and  sounds  of  the  shore  by  moon- 
light, startles  the  imagination  with  this  line  :  — 
"  The  white  arms  out  in  the  breakers  tirelessly  tossing." 

One  of  our  poets  —  Taylor,  I  think  —  has  applied 
the  epithet  "  chameleon  "  to  the  sea,  —  "  the  Chame- 
leon sea,"  —  which  fits  well,  for  the  sea  takes  on  all 
hues  and  tints.  To  the  genial  autocrat  the  sea  is 
"  feline  "  and  treacherous,  something  of  the  crouch- 
ing and  leaping  tiger  in  it.  The  poet  of  "  The  New 
Day,"  as  a  foil  to  his  love  and  admiration  for  it,  calls 
it  "the  accursed  sea."  There  is  sea-salt  in  Whit- 
man's poetry,  strongly  realistic  epithets  and  phrases, 
that  had  their  birth  upon  the  shore,  and  that  per- 
petually recur  to  one  as  he  saunters  on  the  beach. 


176  A  SALT   BREEZE. 

He  uses  the  word  "  rustling  "  and  the  phrase  "  hoarse 
and  sibilant "  to  describe  the  sound  of  the  waves. 
"  The  husky-voiced  sea  "  expresses  the  saline  quality 
to  which  I  have  referred  :  — 

"  Sea  of  stretch' d  ground-swells, 

Sea  breathing  broad  and  convulsive  breaths, 

Sea  of  the  brine  of  life,  and  of  unshovelPd  yet  always  ready 

graves, 

Howler  and  scooper  of  storms,  capricious  and  dainty  sea, 
I  am  integral  with  }-ou;  I  too  am  of  one  phase  and  of  all  phases." 

"  Oh,  madly  the  sea  pushes  upon  the  land, 
With  love,  with  love." 

Or  this,  written  upon  the  beach  at  Ocean  Grove 
in  1883,  — 

"  With  husky-haughty  lips,  O  Sea  ! 

Where  day  and  night  I  wend  thy  surf-beat  shore, 

Imaging  to  my  sense  thy  varied  strange  suggestions, 

The  troops  of  white-maned  racers  racing  to  the  goal, 

Thy  ample  smiling  face,  dash'd  with  the  sparkling  dimples  of  the 

sun, 

Thy  brooding  scowl  and  murk  — thy  unloos'd  hurricanes, 
Thy  unsubdtiedness,  caprices,  wilfulness; 
Great  as  thou  art  above  the  rest,  thy  many  tears  —  a  lack  from  all 

eternity  in  thy  content, 
(Naught  but  the  greatest  struggles,  wrongs,  defeats,  could  make 

thee  greatest  —  no  less  could  make  thee, ) 
Thy  lonely  state  —  something  thou  ever  seek'st  and  seek'st,  yet 

never  gain'st, 
Surely  some  right  withheld  —  some  voice,  in  huge  monotonous 

rage,  of  freedom-lover  pent, 
Some  vast  heart,  like  a  planet's,  chain'd  and  chafing  in  those 

breakers, 

By  lengthen'd  swell,  and  spasm,  and  panting  breath, 
And  rhythmic  rasping  of  thy  sands  and  waves, 
And  serpent  hiss,  and  savage  peals  of  laughter, 


A  SALT   BREEZE.  177 

And  undertones  of  distant  lion  roar, 

(Sounding,  appealing  to  the  sky's  deaf  ear  —  but  now,  rapport  for 

once, 

A  phantom  in  the  night  thy  confidant  for  once,) 
The  first  and  last  confession  of  the  globe, 
Outsurging,  muttering  from  thy  soul's  abysms, 
The  tale  of  cosmic  elemental  passion, 
Thou  tellest  to  a  kindred  soul." 

/Whitman  is  essentially  of  the  shore ;  his  bearded, 
aboriginal  quality,  something  in  his  words  that  smite 
and  chafe,  a  tonic  like  salt-air,  not  sweet,  but  dilating ; 
his  irregular,  flowing,  repeating,  elliptical  lines ;  his 
sense  of  space  and  constant  reference  to  the  earth 
and  the  orbs  as  standards  and  symbols.  His  poems 
are  rarely  architectural  or  sculpturesque,  either  to  the 
eye  or  mind  ;  no  carving  and  shaping  for  merely  art's 
sake ;  but  floating,  drifting,  surging  masses  of  con- 
crete events  and  images,  more  or  less  nebular,  pro- 
toplasmic, and  preliminary,  but  always  potent  and 
alive,  and  full  of  the  salt  of  the  earth,  holding  in  so- 
lution as  no  other  poet  does  his  times  and  country. 

\The  sea  is  the  great  purifier  and  equalizer  of 
climes,  the  great  canceler,  leveler,  distributer,  neu- 
tralizer,  and  sponge  of  oblivion.  What  a  cemetery, 
and  yet  what  healing  in  its  breath !  What  a  desert, 
and  yet  what  plenty  in  its  depths !  How  destructive, 
and  yet  the  continents  are  its  handiwork. 

"  Sea,  full  of  food,  the  nourisher  of  kinds, 
Purger  of  earth,  and  medicine  of  men." 

And  yet  famine  and  thirst,  dismay  and  death,  stalk 
the  wave.     Contradictory,  multitudinous  sea !  the  de- 


178  A  SALT  BREEZE. 

spoiler  and  yet  the  renewer ;  barren  as  a  rock,  yet  as 
fruitful  as  a  field  ;  old  as  Time,  and  young  as  to-day ; 
merciless  as  Fate,  and  tender  as  Love ;  the  fountain 
of  all  waters,  yet  mocking  its  victims  with  the  most 
horrible  thirst ;  smiting  like  a  hammer,  and  caressing 
like  a  lady's  palm  ;  falling  upon  the  shore  like  a  wall 
of  rock,  then  creeping  up  the  sands  as  with  the  rustle 
of  an  infant's  drapery  ;  cesspool  of  the  continents, 
yet  "  creating  a  sweet  clime  by  its  breath ; "  pit  of 
terrors,  gulf  of  despair,  caldron  of  hell,  yet  health, 
power,  beauty,  enchantment,  dwell  forever  with  the 
sea. 


A  SPEING  EELISH. 


A  SPRING  RELISH. 

IT  is  a  little  remarkable  how  regularly  severe  and 
mild  winters  alternate  in  our  climate  for  a  series  of 
years,  —  a  feminine  and  a  masculine  one,  as  it  were, 
almost  invariably  following  each  other.  Every  other 
season  now  for  ten  years  the  ice  gatherers  on  the 
river  have  been  disappointed  of  a  full  harvest,  and 
every  other  season  the  ice  has  formed  from  fifteen 
to  twenty  inches  thick.  From  1873  to  1884  there 
was  no  marked  exception  to  this  rule.  But  in  the  last 
named  year,  when,  according  to  the  succession,  a 
mild  winter  was  due,  the  breed  seemed  to  have  got 
crossed,  and  a  sort  of  mongrel  winter  was  the  result ; 
neither  mild  nor  severe,  but  very  stormy,  capricious, 
and  disagreeable,  with  ice  a  foot  thick  on  the  river. 
The  winter  which  followed,  that  of  1884-85,  though 
slow  and  hesitating  at  first,  fully  proved  itself  as  be- 
longing to  the  masculine  order.  The  present  winter 
of  1885-86  shows  a  marked  return  to  the  type  of 
two  years  ago,  less  hail  and  snow,  but  by  no  means 
the  mild  season  that  was  due.  By  and  by,  probably, 
the  meteorological  influences  will  get  back  into  the 
old  ruts  again,  and  we  shall  have  once  more  the  reg- 
ular alternation  of  mild  and  severe  winters.  During 
very  open  winters,  like  that  of  1879-80,  nature  in 


182  A  SPRING  RELISH. 

my  latitude,  eighty  miles  north  of  New  York,  hardly 
shuts  up  house  at  all.  That  season  I  heard  a  lit- 
tle piping  frog  on  the  7th  of  December,  and  on  the 
18th  of  January,  in  a  spring  run,  I  saw  the  common 
bull-frog  out  of  his  hibernaculum,  evidently  thinking 
it  was  spring.  A  copper-head  snake  was  killed  here 
about  the  same  date ;  caterpillars  did  not  seem  to 
retire,  as  they  usually  do,  but  came  forth  every  warm 
day.  The  note  of  the  bluebird  was  heard  nearly 
every  week  all  winter,  and  occasionally  that  of  the 
robin.  Such  open  winters  make  one  fear  that  his 
appetite  for  spring  will  be  blunted  when  spring  really 
does  come ;  but  he  usually  finds  that  the  April  days 
have  the  old  relish.  April  is  that  part  of  the  season 
that  never  cloys  upon  the  palate.  It  does  not  surfeit 
one  with  good  things,  but  provokes  and  stimulates  the 
curiosity.  One  is  on  the  alert,  there  are  hints  and  sug- 
gestions on  every  hand.  Something  has  just  passed, 
or  stirred,  or  called,  on  breathed,  in  the  open  air  or  in 
the  ground  about,  that  we  would  fain  know  more  of. 
May  is  sweet,  but  April  is  pungent.  There  is  frost 
enough  in  it  to  make  it  sharp,  and  heat  enough  in  it 
to  make  it  quick. 

In  my  walks  in  April  I  am  on  the  lookout  for 
water-cresses.  It  is  a  plant  that  has  the  pungent 
April  flavor.  In  many  parts  of  the  country  the  wa- 
ter-cress seems  to  have  become  completely  natural- 
ized, and  is  essentially  a  wild  plant.  I  found  it  one 
day  in  a  springy  place,  on  the  top  of  a  high,  wooded 
mountain,  far  from  human  habitation.  We  gathered 


A  SPRING  RELISH.  183 

it  and  ate  it  with  our  sandwiches.  Where  the  walker 
cannot  find  this  salad,  a  good  substitute  may  be  had 
in  our  native  spring  cress,  which  is  also  in  perfection 
in  April.  Crossing  a  wooded  hill  in  the  regions  of 
the  Catskills  on  the  15th  of  the  month,  I  found  a 
purple  variety  of  the  plant,  on  the  margin  of  a  spring 
that  issued  from  beneath  a  ledge  of  rocks,  just  ready 
to  bloom.  I  gathered  the  little  white  tubers,  that  are 
clustered  like  miniature  potatoes  at  the  root,  and  ate 
them,  and  they  were  a  surprise  and  a  challenge  to  the 
tongue  ;  on  the  table  they  would  well  fill  the  place  of 
mustard,  and  horse-radish,  and  other  appetizers. 
When  I  was  a  school-boy,  we  used  to  gather,  in  a 
piece  of  woods  on  our  way  to  school,  the  roots  of  a 
closely  allied  species  to  eat  with  our  lunch.  But  we 
generally  ate  it  up  before  lunch-time.  Our  name  for 
this  plant  was  "  Crinkle-root."  The  botanists  call  it 
the  tooth  wort  (Dentaria},  also,  pepper-root. 

From  what  fact  or  event  shall  one  really  date  the 
beginning  of  spring  ?  The  little  piping  frogs,  hylodes, 
usually  furnish  a  good  starting-point.  One  spring  I 
heard  the  first  note  on  the  6th  of  April :  the  next  on 
the  27th  of  February ;  but  in  reality  the  latter  season 
was  only  about  two  weeks  earlier  than  the  former. 
When  the  bees  carry  in  their  first  pollen,  one  would 
think  spring  had  come ;  yet  this  fact  does  not  always 
correspond  with  the  real  stage  of  the  season.  Before 
there  is  any  bloom  anywhere  bees  will  bring  pollen  to 
the  hive.  Where  do  they  get  it  ? 

I  have  seen  them  gathering  it  on  the  fresh  saw- 


184  A  SPRING  RELISH. 

dust  in  the  wood-yard,  especially  on  that  of  hickory 
or  maple.  They  wallow  amid  the  dust,  working  it 
over  and  over,  and  searching  it  like  diamond-hunters, 
and  after  a  time  their  baskets  are  filled  with  the  pre- 
cious flour,  which  is  probably  only  a  certain  part  of 
the  wood,  doubtless  the  soft,  nutritious  inner  bark. 

In  fact,  all  signs  and  phases  of  life  in  the  early  sea- 
son are  very  capricious,  and  are  earlier  or  later  just 
as  some  local  or  exceptional  circumstance  favors  or  hin- 
ders. It  is  only  such  birds  as  arrive  after  about  the 
20th  of  April  that  are  at  all  "  punctual,"  according 
to  the  almanac.  I  have  never  known  the  arrival  of 
the  swallow  to  vary  much  from  that  date  in  this  lati- 
tude, no  matter  how  early  or  late  the  season  might 
be.  Another  punctual  bird  is  the  yellow  red-poll 
warbler,  the  first  of  his  class  that  appears.  Year 
after  year,  between  the  20th  and  the  25th,  I  am  sure 
to  see  this  little  bird  about  my  place  for  a  day  or  two 
only,  now  on  the  ground,  now  on  the  fences,  now  on 
the  small  trees  and  shrubs,  and  closely  examining  the 
buds  or  just  opening  leaves  of  the  apple-trees.  He  is 
a  small  olive-colored  bird,  with  a  dark-red  or  maroon- 
colored  patch  on  the  top  of  his  head.  His  ordinary 
note  is  a  smart  "chirp."  His  movements  are  very 
characteristic,  especially  that  vertical  oscillating  move- 
ment of  the  hind  part  of  his  body,  like  that  of  the 
wagtails.  There  are  many  birds  that  do  not  come 
here  till  May,  be  the  season  never  so  early.  The 
spring  of  1878  was  very  forward,  and  on  the  27th  of 
April  I  made  this  entry  in  my  note-book :  "  In  na- 


A  SPRING  RELISH.  185 

ture  it  is  the  middle  of  May,  and,  judging  from  vege- 
tation alone,  one  would  expect  to  find  many  of  the 
later  birds,  as  the  oriole,  the  wood-thrush,  the  king- 
bird, the  cat-bird,  the  tanager,  the  indigo-bird,  the 
vireos,  and  many  of  the  warblers,  but  they  have  not 
arrived.  The  May  birds,  it  seems,  will  not  come  in 
April,  no  matter  how  the  season  favors." 

Some  birds  passing  north  in  the  spring  are  provok- 
ingly  silent.  Every  April  I  see  the  hermit-thrush 
hopping  about  the  woods,  and  in  case  of  a  sudden 
snow-storm  seeking  shelter  about  the  out-buildings; 
but  I  never  hear  even  a  fragment  of  his  wild,  silvery 
strain.  The  white-crowned  sparrow  also  passes  in 
silence.  I  see  the  bird  for  a  few  days  about  the  same 
date  each  year,  but  he  will  not  reveal  to  me  his  song. 
On  the  other  hand,  his  congener,  the  white-throated 
sparrow,  is  decidedly  musical  in  passing,  both  spring 
and  fall.  His  sweet,  wavering  whistle  is  at  times  quite 
as  full  and  perfect  as  when  heard  in  June  or  July  in 
the  Canadian  woods.  The  latter  bird  is  much  more 
numerous  than  the  white-crowned,  and  its  stay  with 
us  more  protracted,  which  may  in  a  measure  account 
for  the  greater  frequency  of  its  song.  The  fox-spar- 
row, who  passes  earlier  (sometimes  in  March),  is  also 
chary  of  the  music  with  which  he  is  so  richly  en- 
dowed. It  is  not  every  season  that  I  hear  him,  though 
my  ear  is  on  the  alert  for  his  strong,  finely-modu- 
lated whistle. 

Nearly  all  the  warblers  sing  in  passing.  I  hear 
them  in  the  orchards,  in  the  groves,  in  the  woods,  as 


186  A   SPRING  RELISH. 

they  pause  to  feed  in  their  northward  journey,  their 
brief,  lisping,  shuffling,  insect-like  notes  requiring  to 
be  searched  for  by  the  ear,  as  their  forms  by  the  eye. 
But  the  ear  is  not  tasked  to  identify  the  songs  of  the 
kinglets,  as  they  tarry  briefly  with  us  in  spring.  In 
fact  there  is  generally  a  week  in  April  or  early 
May, 

"  On  such  a  time  as  goes  before  the  leaf, 

When  all  the  woods  stand  in  a  mist  of  green 

And  nothing  perfect," 

during  which  the  piping,  voluble,  rapid,  intricate,  and 
delicious  warble  of  the  golden-crowned  kinglet  is  the 
most  noticeable  strain  to  be  heard,  especially  among 
the  evergreens. 

I  notice  that  during  the  mating  season  of  the 
birds  the  rivalries  and  jealousies  are  not  all  confined 
to  the  males.  Indeed,  the  most  spiteful  and  furious 
battles,  as  among  the  domestic  fowls,  are  frequently 
between  females.  I  have  seen  two  hen  robins  scratch 
and  pull  feathers  in  a  manner  that  contrasted  strongly 
with  the  courtly  and  dignified  sparring  usual  between 
the  males.  One  March  a  pair  of  bluebirds  decided 
to  set  up  housekeeping  in  the  trunk  of  an  old  apple- 
tree  near  my  house.  Not  long  after  an  unwedded 
female  appeared,  and  probably  tried  to  supplant  the 
lawful  wife.  I  did  not  see  what  arts  she  used,  but  I 
saw  her  being  very  roughly  handled  by  the  jealous 
bride.  The  battle  continued  nearly  all  day  about  the 
orchard  and  grounds,  and  was  a  battle  at  very  close 
quarters.  The  two  bird*  would  clinch  in  the  air  or 


A  SPRING  REfclSH.  187 


on  a  tree,  and  fall  to  the  ground  with  beaks  and  claws 
locked.  The  male  followed  them  about,  and  warbled 
and  called,  but  whether  deprecatingly  or  encourag- 
ingly I  could  not  tell.  Occasionally  he  would  take 
a  hand,  but  whether  to  separate  them  or  whether  to 
fan  the  flames,  that  I  could  not  tell.  So  far  as  I 
could  see,  he  was  highly  amused,  and  culpably  indif- 
ferent to  the  issue  of  the  battle. 

The  English  spring  begins  much  earlier  than  ours 
in  New  England  and  New  York,  yet  an  exception- 
ally early  April  with  us  must  be  nearly,  if  not  quite, 
abreast  with  April  as  it  usually  appears  in  England. 
The  black-thorn  sometimes  blooms  in  Britain  in  Feb- 
ruary, but  the  swallow  does  not  appear  till  about  the 
20th  of  April,  nor  the  anemone  bloom  ordinarily  till 
that  date.  The  nightingale  comes  about  the  same 
time,  and  the  cuckoo  follows  close.  Our  cuckoo  does 
not  come  till  near  June ;  but  the  water-thrush,  which 
Audubon  thought  nearly  equal  to  the  nightingale  as  a 
songster  (though  it  certainly  is  not),  I  have  known  to 
come  by  the  21st.  I  have  seen  the  sweet  English 
violet,  escaped  from  the  garden,  and  growing  wild  by 
the  roadside,  in  bloom  on  the  25th  of  March,  which 
is  about  its  date  of  flowering  at  home.  During  the 
same  season,  the  first  of  our  native  flowers  to  appear 
was  the  hepatica,  which  I  found  on  April  4th.  The 
arbutus  and  the  dicentra  appeared  on  the  10th,  and 
the  coltsfoot — which,  however,  is  an  importation  — 
about  the  same  time.  The  bloodroot,  claytonia,  saxi- 
frage, and  anemone  were  in  bloom  on  the  l?th,  and  I 


188  A  SPRING  RELISH. 

found  the  first  blue  violet  and  the  great  spurred  violet 
on  the  19th  (saw  the  little  violet-colored  moth  dan- 
cing about  the  woods  the  same  day).  I  plucked  my 
first  dandelion  on  a  meadow  slope  on  the  23d,  and  in 
the  woods,  protected  by  a  high  ledge,  my  first  trillium. 
During  the  month  at  least  twenty  native  shrubs  and 
wild-flowers  bloomed  in  my  vicinity,  which  is  an  un- 
usual showing  for  April. 

There  are  many  things  left  for  May,  but  nothing 
fairer,  if  as  fair,  as  the  first  flower,  the  hepatica.  I 
find  I  have  never  admired  this  little  firstling  half 
enough.  When  at  the  maturity  of  its  charms,  it  is 
certainly  the  gem  of  the  woods.  What  an  individu- 
ality it  has  !  No  two  clusters  alike ;  all  shades  and 
sizes ;  some  are  snow-white,  some  pale  pink,  with  just 
a  tinge  of  violet,  some  deep  purple,  others  the  purest 
blue,  others  blue  touched  with  lilac.  A  solitary  blue- 
purple  one,  fully  expanded  and  rising  over  the  brown 
leaves  or  the  green  moss,  its  cluster  of  minute  anthers 
showing  like  a  group  of  pale  stars  on  its  little  firma- 
ment, is  enough  to  arrest  and  hold  the  dullest  eye. 
Then,  as  I  have  elsewhere  stated,  there  are  individ- 
ual hepaticas,  or  individual  families  among  them,  that 
are  sweet-scented.  The  gift  seems  as  capricious  as 
the  gift  of  genius  in  families.  You  cannot  tell  which 
the  fragrant  ones  are  till  you  try  them.  Sometimes 
it  is  the  large  white  ones,  sometimes  the  large  purple 
ones,  sometimes  the  small  pink  ones.  The  odor  is 
faint,  and  recalls  that  of  the  sweet  violets.  A  cor- 
respondent, who  seemi  to  have  carefully  observed 


A  SPRING  RELISH.  189 

these  fragrant  hepaticas,  writes  me  that  this  gift  of 
odor  is  constant  in  the  same  plant;  that  the  plant 
which  bears  sweet-scented  flowers  this  year  will  bear 
them  next. 

There  is  a  brief  period  in  our  spring  when  I  like 
more  than  at  any  other  time  to  drive  along  the  country 
roads,  or  even  to  be  shot  along  by  steam  and  have 
the  landscape  presented  to  me  like  a  map.  It  is  at 
that  period,  usually  late  in  April,  when  we  behold  the 
first  quickening  of  the  earth.  The  waters  have  sub- 
sided, the  roads  have  become  dry,  the  sunshine  has 
grown  strong  and  its  warmth  has  penetrated  the  sod ; 
there  is  a  stir  of  preparation  about  the  farm  and  all 
through  the  country.  One  does  not  care  to  see  things 
very  closely ;  his  interest  in  nature  is  not  special  but 
general.  The  earth  is  coming  to  life  again.  All  the 
genial  and  more  fertile  places  in  the  landscape  are 
brought  out ;  the  earth  is  quickened  in  spots  and 
streaks ;  you  can  see  at  a  glance  where  man  and 
nature  have  dealt  the  most  kindly  with  it.  The 
warm,  moist  places,  the  places  that  have  had  the 
wash  of  some  building  or  of  the  road,  or  been  sub- 
jected to  some  special  mellowing  influence,  how  quickly 
the  turf  awakens  there  and  shows  the  tender  green ! 
See  what  the  landscape  would  be,  how  much  earlier 
spring  would  come  to  it,  if  every  square  yard  of  it 
was  alike  moist  and  fertile.  As  the  later  snows  lay 
in  patches  here  and  there,  so  now  the  earliest  verdure 
is  irregularly  spread  over  the  landscape  and  is  es- 
pecially marked  on  certain  slopes,  as  if  it  had  blown 
over  from  the  other  side  and  lodged  there. 


190  A  SPRING  RELISH. 

A  little  earlier  the  homesteads  looked  cold  and 
naked ;  the  old  farm-house  was  bleak  and  unattrac- 
tive ;  now  Nature  seems  especially  to  smile  upon  it ; 
her  genial  influences  crowd  up  around  it ;  the  turf 
awakens  all  about  as  if  in  the  spirit  of  friendliness. 
See  the  old  barn  on  the  meadow  slope  ;  the  green 
seems  to  have  oozed  out  from  it  and  to  have  flown 
slowly  down  the  hill ;  at  a  little  distance  it  is  lost  in 
the  sere  stubble.  One  can  see  where  every  spring 
lies  buried  about  the  fields  ;  its  influence  is  felt  at  the 
surface  and  the  turf  is  early  quickened  there.  Where 
the  cattle  have  loved  to  lie  and  ruminate  in  the  warm 
summer  twilight,  there  the  April  sunshine  loves  to 
linger  too,  till  the  sod  thrills  to  new  life. 

The  home,  the  domestic  feeling  in  nature  is  brought 
out  and  enhanced  at  this  time ;  what  man  has  done 
tells,  especially  what  he  has  done  well.  Our  interest 
centres  in  the  farm-houses  and  in  the  influence  that 
seems  to  radiate  from  there.  The  older  the  home, 
the  more  genial  nature  looks  about  it.  The  new  ar- 
chitectural place  of  the  rich  citizen,  with  the  barns 
and  outbuildings  concealed  or  disguised  as  much  as 
possible  —  spring  is  in  no  hurry  about  it ;  the  sweat 
of  long  years  of  honest  labor  has  not  yet  fattened  the 
soil  it  stands  upon. 

The  full  charm  of  this  April  landscape  is  not 
brought  out  till  the  afternoon.  It  seems  to  need  the 
slanting  rays  of  the  evening  sun  to  give  it  the  right 
mellowness  and  tenderness,  or  the  right  perspective. 
It  is,  perhaps,  a  little  too  bald  in  the  strong,  white 


A  SPRING  RELISH.  191 

light  of  the  earlier  part  of  the  day,  but  when  the 
faint,  four-o'clock  shadows  begin  to  come  out  and  we 
look  through  the  green  vistas,  and  along  the  farm 
lanes  toward  the  west,  or  out  across  long  stretches  of 
fields  above  which  spring  seems  fairly  hovering,  just 
ready  to  alight,  and  note  the  teams  slowly  ploughing, 
the  brightened  mould-board  gleaming  in  the  sun  now 
and  then  —  it  is  at  such  times  we  feel  its  fresh,  deli- 
cate attraction  the  most.  There  is  no  foliage  on  the 
trees  yet ;  only  here  and  there  the  red  bloom  of  the 
soft  maple,  illuminated  by  the  declining  sun,  shows 
vividly  against  the  tender  green  of  a  slope  beyond,  or 
a  willow,  like  a  thin  veil,  stands  out  against  a  leafless 
wood.  Here  and  there  a  little  meadow  water-course 
is  golden  with  marsh  marigolds,  or  some  fence  border, 
or  rocky  streak  of  neglected  pasture  land,  is  thickly 
starred  with  the  white  flowers  of  the  bloodroot. 
The  eye  can  devour  a  succession  of  landscapes  at 
such  a  time  ;  there  is  nothing  that  sates  or  entirely 
fills  it,  but  every  spring  token  stimulates  it  and  makes 
it  more  on  the  alert. 

April,  too,  is  the  time  to  go  budding.  A  swelling 
bud  is  food  for  the  fancy,  and  often  food  for  the  eye. 
Some  buds  begin  to  glow  as  they  begin  to  swell. 
The  bud  scales  change  color  and  become  a  delicate 
rose  pink.  1  note  this  especially  in  the  European 
maple.  The  bud  scales  flush  as  if  the  effort  to  "  keep 
in  "  brought  the  blood  into  their  faces.  The  scales 
of  the  willow  do  not  flush,  but  shine  like  ebony,  and 
each  one  presses  like  a  hand  upon  the  catkin  that  will 
escape  from  beneath  it. 


192  A  SPRING  RELISH. 

When  spring  pushes  pretty  hard  many  buds  begin 
to  sweat  as  well  as  to  glow ;  they  exude  a  brown, 
fragrant,  gummy  substance  that  affords  the  honey-bee 
her  first  cement  and  hive  varnish.  The  hickory,  the 
horse-chestnut,  the  plane-tree,  the  poplars,  are  all 
coated  with  this  April  myrrh.  That  of  certain  pop- 
lars, like  the  Balm  of  Gilead,  is  the  most  noticeable 
and  fragrant.  No  spring  incense  more  agreeable. 
Its  perfume  is  often  upon  the  April  breeze.  I  pick 
up  the  bud  scales  of  the  poplars  along  the  road,  long 
brown  scales  like  the  beaks  of  birds,  and  they  leave  a 
rich  gummy  odor  in  my  hand  that  lasts  for  hours.  I 
frequently  detect  the  same  odor  about  my  hives  when 
the  bees  are  making  all  snug  against  the  rains,  or 
against  the  millers.  When  used  by  the  bees  we  call 
it  propolis.  Virgil  refers  to  it  as  a  "  glue  more  ad- 
hesive than  bird  lime  and  the  pitch  of  Phrygian  Ida." 
Pliny  says  it  is  extracted  from  the  tears  of  the  elm, 
the  willow,  and  the  reed.  The  bees  often  have  seri- 
ous work  to  detach  it  from  their  leg-baskets  and  make 
it  stick  only  where  they  want  it  to. 

The  bud  scales  begin  to  drop  in  April,  and  by  May- 
day the  scales  have  fallen  from  the  eyes  of  every 
branch  in  the  forest.  In  most  cases  the  bud  has  an 
inner  wrapping  that  does  not  fall  so  soon.  In  the 
hickory  this  inner  wrapping  is  like  a  great  livid  mem- 
brane, an  inch  or  more  in  length,  thick,  fleshy,  and 
shining.  It  clasps  the  tender  leaves  about  as  if  both 
protecting  and  nursing  them.  As  the  leaves  develop, 
these  membranous  wrappings  curl  back,  and  finally 


A  SPRING  RELISH.  193 

wither  and  fall.  In  the  plane-tree,  or  sycamore,  this 
inner  wrapping  of  the  bud  is  a  little  pelisse  of  soft 
yellow  or  tawny  fur.  When  it  is  cast  off  it  is  the 
size  of  one's  thumb  nail,  and  suggests  the  delicate  skin 
of  some  golden-haired  mole.  The  young  sycamore 
balls  lay  aside  their  fur  wrappings  early  in  May. 
The  flower  tassels  of  the  European  maple,  too,  come 
packed  in  a  slightly  furry  covering.  The  long  and 
fleshy  inner  scales  that  enfold  the  flowers  and  leaves 
are  of  a  clear  olive  green,  thinly  covered  with  silken 
hairs  like  the  young  of  some  animals.  Our  sugar 
maple  is  less  striking  and  beautiful  in  the  bud,  but 
the  flowers  are  more  graceful  and  fringe-like. 

Some  trees  have  no  bud  scales.  The  sumac  pre- 
sents in  early  spring  a  mere  fuzzy  knot,  from  which, 
by  and  by,  there  emerges  a  soft,  furry,  tawny-colored 
kitten's  paw.  I  know  of  nothing  in  vegetable  nature 
that  seems  so  really  to  be  born  as  the  ferns.  They 
emerge  from  the  ground  rolled  up,  with  a  rudimen- 
tary and  "  touch-me-not "  look,  and  appear  to  need  a 
maternal  tongue  to  lick  them  into  shape.  The  sun 
plays  the  wet-nurse  to  them,  and  very  soon  they  are 
out  of  that  uncanny  covering  in  which  they  come 
swathed  and  take  their  places  with  other  green 
things. 

The  bud  scales  strew  the  ground  in  spring  as  the 
leaves  do  in  the  fall,  though  they  are  so  small  that 
we  hardly  notice  them.  All  growth,  all  development, 
is  a  casting  off,  a  leaving  of  something  behind.  First 
the  bud  scales  drop,  then  the  flower  drops,  then  the 


194  A  SPRING  RELISH. 

fruit  drops,  then  the  leaf  drops.  The  first  two  are 
preparatory  and  stand  for  spring ;  the  last  two  are 
the  crown  and  stand  for  autumn.  Nearly  the  same 
thing  happens  with  the  seed  in  the  ground.  First 
the  shell,  or  outer  husk,  is  dropped  or  cast  off ;  then 
the  cotyledons,  those  nurse  leaves  of  the  young  plant ; 
then  the  fruit  falls,  and  at  last  the  stalk  and  leaf.  A 
bud  is  a  kind  of  seed  planted  in  the  branch  instead  of 
in  the  soil.  It  bursts  and  grows  like  a  germ.  In  the 
absence  of  seeds  and  fruit,  many  birds  and  animals 
feed  upon  buds.  The  pine  grosbeaks  from  the  north 
are  the  most  destructive  budders  that  come  among  us. 
The  snow  beneath  the  maples  they  frequent  are  often 
covered  with  bud  scales.  The  ruffed  grouse  some- 
times buds  in  an  orchard  near  the  woods,  and  thus 
takes  the  farmer's  apple  crop  a  year  in  advance. 
Grafting  is  but  a  planting  of  buds.  The  seed  is  a 
complete,  independent  bud ;  it  has  the  nutriment  of 
the  young  plant  within  itself,  as  the  egg  holds  several 
good  lunches  for  the  young  chick.  When  the  spider, 
or  the  wasp,  or  the  carpenter  bee,  or  the  sand  hornet 
lays  an  egg  in  a  cell  and  deposits  food  near  it  for  the 
young  when  hatched,  it  does  just  what  nature  does 
in  every  kernel  of  corn  or  wheat,  or  bean,  or  nut. 
Around  the  chit  or  germ  she  stores  food  for  the 
young  plant.  Upon  this  it  feeds  till  the  root  takes 
hold  of  the  soil  and  draws  sustenance  from  thence. 
The  bud  is  rooted  in  the  branch  and  draws  its  sus- 
tenance from  the  milk  of  the  pulpy  cambium  layer 
beneath  the  bark. 


A  SPRING  RELISH.  195 

Another  pleasant  feature  of  spring,  which  I  have 
not  mentioned,  is  the  full  streams.  Riding  across 
the  country  one  bright  day  in  March,  I  saw  and  felt, 
as  if  for  the  first  time,  what  an  addition  to  the  satis- 
faction one  has  in  the  open  air  at  this  season  is  the 
clear,  full  water-courses.  They  come  to  the  front,  as 
it  were,  and  lure  and  hold  the  eye.  There  are  no 
weeds,  or  grasses,  or  foliage  to  hide  them ;  they  are 
full  to  the  brim,  and  fuller ;  they  catch  and  reflect 
the  sunbeams,  and  are  about  the  only  objects  of  life 
and  motion  in  nature.  The  trees  stand  so  still,  the 
fields  are  so  hushed  and  naked,  the  mountains  so  ex- 
posed and  rigid,  that  the  eye  falls  upon  the  blue, 
sparkling,  undulating  water-courses  with  a  peculiar 
satisfaction.  By  and  by  the  grass  and  trees  will  be 
waving,  and  the  streams  will  be  shrunken  and  hid- 
den, and  our  delight  will  not  be  in  them.  The  still 
ponds  and  lakelets  will  then  please  us  more. 

The  little  brown  brooks,  —  how  swift  and  full  they 
ran !  One  fancied  something  gleeful  and  hilarious  in 
them.  And  the  large  creeks,  —  how  steadily  they 
rolled  on,  trailing  their  ample  skirts  along  the  edges 
of  the  fields  and  marshes,  and  leaving  ragged  patches 
of  water  here  and  there !  Many  a  gentle  slope 
spread,  as  it  were,  a  turfy  apron  in  which  reposed  a 
little  pool  or  lakelet.  Many  a  stream  sent  little  de- 
tachments across  lots,  the  sparkling  water  seeming  to 
trip  lightly  over  the  unbroken  turf.  Here  and  there 
an  oak  or  an  elm  stood  knee-deep  in  a  clear  pool,  as 
if  rising  from  its  bath.  It  gives  one  a  fresh,  genial 


196  A  SPRING  RELISH. 

feeling,  to  see  such  a  bountiful  supply  of  pure,  run- 
ning water.  One's  desires  and  affinities  go  out 
toward  the  full  streams.  How  many  a  parched  place 
they  reach  and  lap  in  one's  memory  !  How  many  a 
vision  of  naked  pebbles  and  sun-baked  banks  they 
cover  and  blot  out !  They  give  eyes  to  the  fields ; 
they  give  dimples  and  laughter ;  they  give  light  and 
motion.  Running  water!  What  a  delightful  sug- 
gestion the  words  always  convey  !  One's  thoughts 
and  sympathies  are  set  flowing  by  them;  they  un- 
lock a  fountain  of  pleasant  fancies  and  associations 
in  one's  memory ;  the  imagination  is  touched  and 
refreshed. 

March  water  is  usually  clean,  sweet  water ;  every 
brook  is  a  trout-brook,  a  mountain  brook;  the  cold 
and  the  snow  have  supplied  the  condition  of  a  high 
latitude  ;  no  stagnation,  no  corruption  comes  down 
stream  now  as  on  a  summer  freshet.  Winter  comes 
down  —  liquid  and  repentant.  Indeed,  it  is  more  than 
water  that  runs  then :  it  is  frost  subdued ;  it  is  spring 
triumphant.  No  obsolete  water-courses  now.  The 
larger  creeks  seek  out  their  abandoned  beds,  return 
to  the  haunts  of  their  youth,  and  linger  fondly  there. 
The  muskrat  is  adrift,  but  not  homeless  ;  his  range  is 
vastly  extended,  and  he  evidently  rejoices  in  full 
streams.  Through  the  tunnel  of  the  meadow-mouse 
the  water  rushes  as  through  a  pipe ;  and  that  nest  of 
his,  that  was  so  warm  and  cozy  beneath  the  snow- 
bank in  the  meadow-bottom,  is  sodden  or  afloat.  But 
meadow-mice  are  not  afraid  of  water.  On  various 


A  SPRING  RELISH.  197 

occasions  I  have  seen  them  swimming  about  the 
spring  pools  like  muskrats,  and  when  alarmed,  dive 
beneath  the  water.  Add  the  golden  willows  to  the 
full  streams,  with  the  red-shouldered  starlings  perched 
amid  their  branches,  sending  forth  their  strong,  liq- 
uid, gurgling  notes,  and  the  picture  is  complete.  The 
willow  branches  appear  to  have  taken  on  a  deeper 
yellow  in  spring;  perhaps  it  is  the  effect  of  the 
stronger  sunshine,  perhaps  it  is  the  effect  of  the  swift 
vital  water  laving  their  roots.  The  epaulettes  of  the 
starlings  too  are  brighter  than  when  they  left  us  in 
the  fall,  and  they  appear  to  get  brighter  daily  until 
the  nesting  begins.  The  males  arrive  many  days  be- 
fore the  females,  and,  perched  along  the  marshes  and 
water-courses,  send  forth  their  liquid,  musical  notes, 
passing  the  call  from  one  to  the  other,  as  if  to  guide 
and  hurry  their  mates  forward. 

The  noise  of  a  brook,  you  may  observe,  is  by  no 
means  in  proportion  to  its  volume.  The  full  March 
streams  make  far  less  noise  relatively  to  their  size 
than  the  shallower  streams  of  summer,  because  the 
rocks  and  pebbles  that  cause  the  sound  in  summer 
are  deeply  buried  beneath  the  current.  "  Still  wa- 
ters run  deep  "  is  not  so  true  as  "  deep  waters  run 
still."  I  rode  for  half  a  day  along  the  upper  Dela- 
ware, and  my  thoughts  almost  unconsciously  faced 
toward  the  full,  clear  river.  Both  the  Delaware  and 
the  Susquehanna  have  a  starved,  impoverished  look 
in  summer  —  unsightly  stretches  of  naked  drift  and 
bare  bleaching  rocks.  But  behold  them  in  March, 


198  A  SPRING  RELISH. 

after  the  frost  has  turned  over  to  them  the  moisture 
it  has  held  back  and  stored  up  as  the  primitive  for- 
ests used  to  hold  the  summer  rains.  Then  they  have 
an  easy,  ample  triumphant  look,  that  is  a  feast  to  the 
eye.  A  plump,  well-fed  stream  is  as  satisfying  to 
behold  as  a  well-fed  animal,  or  a  thrifty  tree.  One 
source  of  charm  in  the  English  landscape  is  the  full, 
placid  stream  the  season  through;  no  desiccated 
water-courses  will  you  see  there,  nor  any  feeble,  de- 
crepit brooks,  hardly  able  to  get  over  the  ground. 

This  condition  of  our  streams  and  rivers  in  spring 
is  evidently  but  a  faint  reminiscence  of  their  condi- 
tion during  what  we  may  call  the  geological  spring- 
time, the  March  or  April  of  the  earth's  history,  when 
the  annual  rainfall  appears  to  have  been  vastly  greater 
than  at  present,  and  when  the  water-courses  were 
consequently  vastly  larger  and  fuller.  In  pleistocene 
days  the  earth's  climate  was  evidently  much  damper 
than  at  present.  It  was  the  rainiest  of  March 
weather.  On  no  other  theory  can  we  account  for 
the  enormous  erosion  of  the  earth's  surface,  and  the 
ploughing  of  the  great  valleys.  Professor  Newberry 
finds  abundant  evidence  that  the  Hudson  was,  in  for- 
mer times,  a  much  larger  river  than  now.  Professor 
Zittel  reaches  the  same  conclusion  concerning  the 
Nile,  and  Humboldt  was  impressed  with  the  same 
fact  while  examining  the  Orinoco  and  the  tributaries 
of  the  Amazon.  All  these  rivers  appear  to  be  but 
mere  fractions  of  their  former  selves.  The  same  is 
true  of  all  the  great  lakes.  If  not  Noah's  flood,  then 


A  SPRING  RELISH.  199 

evidently  some  other  very  wet  spell,  of  which  this  is 
a  tradition,  lies  far  hehind  us.  Something  like  the 
drought  of  summer  is  beginning  upon  the  earth ;  the 
great  floods  have  dried  up ;  the  rivers  are  slowly 
shrinking ;  the  water  is  penetrating  farther  and  far- 
ther into  the  cooling  crust  of  the  earth,  and  what 
was  ample  to  drench  and  cover  its  surface,  even  to 
make  a  Noah's  flood,  will  be  but  a  drop  in  the  bucket 
to  the  vast  interior  of  the  cooled  sphere. 


A  EIVER  VIEW. 


A   RIVER  VIEW. 

A  SMALL  river  or  stream  flowing  by  one's  door  has 
many  attractions  over  a  large  body  of  water  like  the 
Hudson.  One  can  make  a  companion  of  it ;  he  can 
walk  with  it  and  sit  with  it,  or  lounge  on  its  banks, 
and  feel  that  it  is  all  his  own.  It  becomes  something 
private  and  special  to  him.  You  cannot  have  the 
same  kind  of  attachment  and  sympathy  with  a  great 
river ;  it  does  not  flow  through  your  affections  like 
a  lesser  stream.  The  Hudson  is  a  long  arm  of  the 
sea,  and  it  has  something  of  the  sea's  austerity  and 
grandeur.  I  think  one  might  spend  a  lifetime  upon 
its  banks  without  feeling  any  sense  of  ownership  in 
it,  or  becoming  at  all  intimate  with  it :  it  keeps  one 
at  arm's  length.  It  is  a  great  highway  of  travel  and 
of  commerce;  ships  from  all  parts  of  our  seaboard 
plough  its  waters. 

But  there  is  one  thing  a  large  river  does  for  one 
that  is  beyond  the  scope  of  the  companionable 
streams,  —  it  idealizes  the  landscape,  it  multiplies  and 
heightens  the  beauty  of  the  day  and  of  the  season. 
A  fair  day  it  makes  more  fair,  and  a  wild  and  tem- 
pestuous day  it  makes  more  wild  and  tempestuous. 
It  takes  on  so  quickly  and  completely  the  mood  and 
temper  of  the  sky  above.  The  storm  is  mirrored  in 


204  A  RIVER  VIEW. 

it,  and  the  wind  chafes  it  into  foam.  The  face  of 
winter  it  makes  doubly  rigid  and  corpse-like.  How 
stark  and  still  and  white  it  lies  there  !  But  of  a 
bright  day  in  spring,  what  life  and  light  possess  it ! 
How  it  enhances  or  emphasizes  the  beauty  of  those 
calm,  motionless  days  of  summer  or  fall,  —  the  broad, 
glassy  surface  perfectly  duplicating  the  opposite  shore, 
sometimes  so  smooth  that  the  finer  floating  matter 
here  and  there  looks  like  dust  upon  a  mirror  ;  the  be- 
calmed sails  standing  this  way  and  that,  drifting  with 
the  tide.  Indeed,  nothing  points  a  calm  day  like  a 
great  motionless  sail ;  it  is  such  a  conspicuous  bid  for 
the  breeze  which  comes  not. 

I  have  noticed  that  when  the  river  is  roily,  a  calm 
conceals  it ;  a  glassy  surface  is  a  kind  of  -mask.  But 
when  the  breeze  comes  and  agitates  it  a  little,  its  real 
color  comes  out. 

"  Immortal  water,"  says  Thoreau,  "  alive  to  the 
superficies."  How  sensitive  and  tremulous  and  pal- 
pitating this  great  river  is  !  It  is  only  in  certain 
lights,  on  certain  days,  that  we  can  see  how  it  quivers 
and  throbs.  Sometimes  you  can  see  the  subtle  tremor 
or  impulse  that  travels  in  advance  of  the  coming 
steamer  and  prophesies  of  its  coming.  Sometimes 
the  coming  of  the  flood  tide  is  heralded  in  the  same 
way.  Always,  when  the  surface  is  calm  enough  and 
the  light  is  favorable,  the  river  seems  shot  through 
and  through  with  tremblings  and  premonitions. 

The  river  never  seems  so  much  a  thing  of  life  as  in 
the  spring  when  it  first  slips  off  its  icy  fetters.  The 


A  RIVER  VIEW.  205 

dead  comes  to  life  before  one's  very  eyes.  The  rigid, 
pallid  river  is  resurrected  in  a  twinkling.  You  look 
out  of  your  window  one  moment  and  there  is  that 
great,  white,  motionless  expanse ;  you  look  again, 
and  there  in  its  place  is  the  tender,  dimpling,  spark- 
ling water.  But  if  your  eyes  are  sharp,  you  may  have 
noticed  the  signs  all  the  forenoon  ;  the  time  was  ripe, 
the  river  stirred  a  little  in  its  icy  shroud,  put  forth  a 
little  streak  or  filament  of  blue  water  near  shore,  made 
breathing-holes.  Then,  after  a  while,  the  ice  was  rent 
in  places,  and  the  edges  crushed  together  or  shoved 
one  slightly  upon  the  other ;  there  was  apparently 
something  growing  more  and  more  alive  and  restless 
underneath.  Then  suddenly  the  whole  mass  of  the 
ice  from  shore  to  shore  begins  to  move  down-stream, 
—  very  gently,  almost  imperceptibly  at  first,  then  with 
a  steady,  deliberate  pace  that  soon  lays  bare  a  large 
expanse  of  bright,  dancing  water.  The  island  above 
keeps  back  the  northern  ice,  and  the  ebb  tide  makes 
a  clean  sweep  from  that  point  south  for  a  few  miles, 
until  the  return  of  the  flood,  when  the  ice  comes  back. 
After  the  ice  is  once  in  motion,  a  few  hours  suffice 
to  break  it  up  pretty  thoroughly.  Then  what  a  wild, 
chaotic  scene  the  river  presents :  in  one  part  of  the 
day  the  great  masses  hurrying  down  stream,  crowd- 
ing and  jostling  each  other,  and  struggling  for  the 
right  of  way ;  in  the  other,  all  running  up  stream 
again,  as  if  sure  of  escape  in  that  direction.  Thus 
they  race  up  and  down,  the  sport  of  the  ebb  and 
flow ;  but  the  ebb  wins  each  time  by  some  distance. 


206  A  RIVER  VIEW. 

Large  fields  from  above,  where  the  men  were  at 
work  but  a  day  or  two  since,  come  down  ;  there  is 
their  pond  yet  clearly  denned  and  full  of  marked 
ice  ;  yonder  is  a  section  of  their  canal  partly  filled 
with  the  square  blocks  on  their  way  to  the  elevators ; 
a  piece  of  a  race-course,  or  a  part  of  a  road  where 
teams  crossed,  comes  drifting  by.  The  people  up 
above  have  written  their  winter  pleasure  and  occupa- 
tions upon  this  page,  and  we  read  the  signs  as  the 
tide  bears  it  slowly  past.  Some  calm,  bright  days 
the  scattered  and  diminished  masses  glide  by,  like 
white  clouds  across  an  April  sky. 

At  other  times,  when  the  water  is  black  and  still, 
the  river  looks  like  a  strip  of  the  firmament  at  night, 
dotted  with  stars  and  moons  in  the  shape  of  little  and 
big  fragments  of  ice.  One  day  I  remember  there 
came  gliding  into  my  vision  a  great  irregular  hemi- 
sphere of  ice,  that  vividly  suggested  the  half  moon 
under  the  telescope  ;  its  white  uneven  surface,  pitted 
and  cracked,  the  jagged  inner  line,  the  outward 
curve,  but  little  broken,  and  the  blue-black  surface 
upon  which  it  lay  —  all  recalled  the  scenery  of  the 
midnight  skies.  It  is  only  in  exceptionally  calm 
weather  that  the  ice  collects  in  these  vast  masses, 
leaving  broad  expanses  of  water  perfectly  clear. 
Sometimes,  during  such  weather,  it  drifts  by  in  forms 
that  suggest  the  great  continents,  as  they  appear  upon 
the  map,  surrounded  by  the  oceans,  all  their  capes 
and  peninsulas,  and  isthmuses  and  gulfs,  and  inland 
lakes  and  seas,  vividly  reproduced. 


A  RIVER  VIEW.  ^^^LJ          207 

If  the  opening  of  the  river  is  gentle,  the  closing  of 
it  is  sometimes  attended  by  scenes  exactly  the  re- 
verse. 

I  A  cold  wave  one  December  was  accompanied  by  a 
violent  wind,  which  blew  for  two  days  and  two  nights. 
The  ice  formed  rapidly  in  the  river,  but  the  wind  and 
waves  kept  it  from  uniting  and  massing.  On  the  sec- 
ond day  the  scene  was  indescribably  wild  and  forbid- 
ding; the  frost  and  fury  of  December  were  never 
more  vividly  pictured  :  vast  crumpled,  spumy  ice-fields 
interspersed  with  stretches  of  wildly  agitated  water, 
the  heaving  waves  thick  with  forming  crystals,  the 
shores  piled  with  frozen  foam  and  pulverized  floes. 
After  the  cold  wave  had  spent  itself  and  the  masses 
had  become  united  and  stationary,  the  scene  was 
scarcely  less  wild.  I  fancied  the  plain  looked  more 
like  a  field  of  lava  and  scoria  than  like  a  field  of  ice, 
an  eruption  from  some  huge  frost  volcano  of  the 
north.  Or  did  it  suggest  that  a  battle  had  been 
fought  there,  and  that  this  wild  confusion  was  the 
ruin  wrought  by  the  contending  forces  ? 

No  sooner  has  the  river  pulled  his  icy  coverlid  over 
him  than  he  begins  to  snore  in  his  winter  sleep.  It  is 
a  singular  sound.  Thoreau  calls  it  a  "  whoop,"  Em- 
erson a  "  cannonade,"  and  in  "  Merlin  "  speaks  of 

"  The  gasp  and  moan 
Of  the  ice-imprisoned  flood." 

Sometimes  it  is  a  well-defined  grunt  —  e-h-h,  e-h-h,  as 
if  some  ice-god  turned  uneasily  in  his  bed. 

One  fancies  tfce  sound  is  like  this,  when  he  hears  it 


208  A  RIVER  VIEW. 

in  the  still  winter  nights  seated  by  his  fireside,  or  else 
when  snugly  wrapped  in  his  own  bed. 

One  winter  the  river  shut  up  in  a  single  night,  be- 
neath a  cold  wave  of  great  severity  and  extent.  Zero 
weather  continued  nearly  a  week,  with  a  clear  sky  and 
calm,  motionless  air ;  and  the  effect  of  the  brilliant 
sun  by  day  and  of  the  naked  skies  by  night  upon  this 
vast  area  of  new  black  ice,  one  expanding  it,  the  other 
contracting,  was  very  marked. 

A  cannonade  indeed  !  As  the  morning  advanced, 
out  of  the  sunshine  came  peal  upon  peal  of  soft  mimic 
thunder ;  occasionally  becoming  a  regular  crash,  as  if 
all  the  ice  batteries  were  discharged  at  once.  As 
noon  approached,  the  sound  grew  to  one  continuous 
mellow  roar,  which  lessened  and  became  more  inter- 
mittent as  the  day  waned,  until  about  sundown  it  was 
nearly  hushed.  Then  as  the  chill  of  night  came  on, 
the  conditions  were  reversed  and  the  ice  began  to 
thunder  under  the  effects  of  contraction ;  cracks 
opened  from  shore  to  shore,  and  grew  to  be  two  or 
three  inches  broad  under  the  shrinkage  of  the  ice. 
On  the  morrow  the  expansion  of  the  ice  often  found 
vent  in  one  of  these  cracks ;  the  two  edges  would  first 
crush  together,  and  then  gradually  overlap  each  other 
for  two  feet  or  more. 

This  expansive  force  of  the  sun  upon  the  ice  is 
sometimes  enormous.  I  have  seen  the  ice  explode 
with  a  loud  noise  and  a  great  commotion  in  the  water, 
and  a  huge  crack  shoot  like  a  thunderbolt  from  shore 
to  shore,  with  its  edges  overlapping  a/id  shivered  into 
fragments. 


A  RIVER  VIEW.  209 

When  unprotected  by  a  covering  of  snow,  the  ice, 
under  the  expansive  force  of  the  sun,  breaks  regu- 
larly, every  two  or  three  miles,  from  shore  to  shore. 
The  break  appears  as  a  slight  ridge,  formed  by  the 
edges  of  the  overlapping  ice. 

This  icy  uproar  is  like  thunder  because  it  seems  to 
proceed  from  something  in  swift  motion  ;  you  cannot 
locate  it ;  it  is  everywhere  and  yet  nowhere.  Thero 
is  something  strange  and  phantom-like  about  it.  To 
the  eye  all  is  still  and  rigid,  but  to  the  ear  all  is  in 
swift  motion. 

This  crystal  cloud  does  not  open  and  let  the  bolt 
leap  forth,  but  walk  upon  it,  and  you  see  the  ice  shot 
through  and  through  in  every  direction  with  shining, 
iridescent  lines  where  the  force  passed.  These  lines 
are  not  cracks  which  come  to  the  surface,  but  spiral 
paths,  through  the  ice,  as  if  the  force  that  made  them 
went  with  a  twist  like  a  rifle  bullet.  In  places  sev- 
eral of  them  run  together,  when  they  make  a  track 
as  broad  as  one's  hand. 

Sometimes  when  I  am  walking  upon  the  ice  and 
this  sound  flashes  by  me,  I  fancy  it  is  like  the  stroke 
of  a  gigantic  skater,  one  who  covers  a  mile  at  a  stride 
and  makes  the  crystal  floor  ring  beneath  him.  I  hear 
his  long  tapering  stroke  ring  out  just  beside  me,  and 
then  in  a  twinkling  it  is  half  a  mile  away. 

A  fall  of  snow,  and  this  icy  uproar  is  instantly 
hushed,  the  river  sleeps  in  peace.  The  snow  is  like 
a  coverlid,  which  protects  the  ice  from  the  changes  of 
temperature  of  the  air,  and  brings  repose  to  its  un- 
easy spirit. 


210  A  RIVER  VIEW. 

A  dweller  upon  its  banks,  I  am  an  interested  spec- 
tator of  the  spring  and  winter  harvests  which  its 
waters  yield.  In  the  stern  winter  nights,  it  is  a 
pleasant  thought  that  a  harvest  is  growing  down 
there  on  those  desolate  plains  which  will  bring  work 
to  many  needy  hands  by-and-by,  and  health  and  com- 
fort to  the  great  cities  some  months  later.  When 
the  nights  arc  coldest  the  ice  grows  as  fast  as  corn  in 
July.  It  is  a  crop  that  usually  takes  two  or  three 
weeks  to  grow,  and  if  the  water  is  very  roily,  or  brack- 
ish, even  longer.  Men  go  out  from  time  to  time  and 
examine  it,  as  the  farmer  goes  out  and  examines  his 
grain  or  grass,  to  see  when  it  will  do  to  cut.  If 
there  comes  a  deep  fall  of  snow  before  the  ice  has 
attained  much  thickness  it  is  "  pricked,"  so  as  to  let 
the  water  up  through  and  form  snow  ice.  A  band  of 
fifteen  or  twenty  men,  about  a  yard  apart,  each 
armed  with  a  chisel-bar,  and  marching  in  line,  punc- 
ture the  ice  at  each  step,  with  a  single  sharp  thrust. 
To  and  fro  they  go,  leaving  a  belt  behind  them  that 
presently  becomes  saturated  with  water.  But  ice,  to 
be  first  quality,  must  grow  from  beneath,  not  from 
above.  It  is  a  crop  quite  as  uncertain  as  any  other. 
A  good  yield  every  two  or  three  years,  as  they  say 
of  wheat  out  West,  is  about  all  that  can  be  counted 
upon.  When  there  is  an  abundant  harvest,  after  the 
ice-houses  are  filled,  they  stack  great  quantities  of  it, 
as  the  farmer  stacks  his  surplus  hay. 

The  cutting  and  gathering  of  the  ice  enlivens  these 
broad,  white,  desolate  fields  amazingly.  One  looks 


A  RIVER   VIEW.  211 

down  upon  the  busy  scene  as  from  a  hill-top  upon  a 
river  meadow  in  haying  time,  only  here  the  figures 
stand  out  much  more  sharply  than  they  do  from  a 
summer  meadow.  There  is  the  broad,  straight  blue- 
black  canal  emerging  into  view,  and  running  nearly 
across  the  river ;  this  is  the  highway  that  lays  open 
the  farm.  On  either  side  lie  the  fields  or  ice-mead- 
ows, each  marked  out  by  cedar  or  hemlock  boughs. 
The  farther  one  is  cut  first;  and,  when  cleared, 
shows  a  large,  long,  black  parallelogram  in  the  midst 
of  the  plain  of  snow.  Then  the  next  one  is  cut,  leav- 
ing a  strip  or  tongue  of  ice  between  the  two  for  the 
horses  to  move  and  turn  upon.  Sometimes  nearly  two 
hundred  men  and  boys,  with  numerous  horses,  are 
at  work  at  once,  marking,  ploughing,  planing,  scrap- 
ing, sawing,  hauling,  chiseling  ;  some  floating  down 
the  pond  on  great  square  islands  towed  by  a  horse, 
or  their  fellow-workman ;  others  distributed  along 
the  canal,  bending  to  their  ice-hooks ;  others  upon  the 
bridges,  separating  the  blocks  with  their  chisel-bars ; 
others  feeding  the  elevators  ;  while  knots  and  strag- 
gling lines  of  idlers  here  and  there  look  on  in  cold 
discontent,  unable  to  get  a  job. 

The  best  crop  of  ice  is  an  early  crop.  Late  in  the 
season,  or  after  January,  the  ice  is  apt  to  get  "  sun- 
struck,  "  when  it  becomes  "  shaky,"  like  a  piece  of 
poor  timber.  The  sun,  when  he  sets  about  destroy- 
ing the  ice,  does  not  simply  melt  it  from  the  surface 
—  that  were  a  slow  process  ;  but  he  sends  his  shafts 
into  it  and  separates  it  into  spikes  and  needles  — 


212  A  KIVER   VIEW. 

in  short,  makes  kindling-wood  of  it,  so  as  to  consume 
it  the  quicker. 

One  of  the  prettiest  sights  about  the  ice  harvest- 
ing is  the  elevator  in  operation.  When  all  works 
well,  there  is  an  unbroken  procession  of  the  great 
crystal  blocks  slowly  ascending  this  incline.  They 
go  up  in  couples,  arm  in  arm,  as  it  were,  like  friends 
up  a  stairway,  glowing  and  changing  in  the  sun,  and 
recalling  the  precious  stones  that  adorned  the  walls 
of  the  celestial  city.  When  they  reach  the  platform 
where  they  leave  the  elevator,  they  seem  to  step  off 
like  things  of  life  and  volition ;  they  are  still  in  pairs, 
and  separate  only  as  they  enter  upon  the  "  runs." 
But  here  they  have  an  ordeal  to  pass  through,  for 
they  are  subjected  to  a  rapid  inspection  by  a  man 
with  a  sharp  eye  in  his  head  and  a  sharp  ice-hook  in 
his  hand,  and  the  black  sheep  are  separated  from 
the  flock ;  every  square  with  a  trace  of  sediment  or 
earth-stain  in  it,  whose  texture  is  not  the  perfect  and 
unclouded  crystal,  is  rejected  and  sent  hurling  down 
into  the  abyss.  Those  that  pass  the  examination 
glide  into  the  building  along  the  gentle  incline,  and 
are  switched  off  here  and  there  upon  branch  runs, 
and  distributed  to  all  parts  of  the  immense  interior. 
When  the  momentum  becomes  too  great,  the  blocks 
run  over  a  board  full  of  nails  or  spikes,  that  scratch 
their  bottoms  and  retard  their  progress,  giving  the 
looker-on  an  uncomfortable  feeling. 

A  beautiful  phenomenon  may  at  times  be  witnessed 
on  the  river  in  the  morning  after  a  night  of  extreme 


A  RIVER  VIEW.  213 

cold.  The  new  black  ice  is  found  to  be  covered  with 
a  sudden  growth  of  frost-ferns  —  exquisite  fern-like 
formations  from  a  half-inch  to  an  inch  in  length, 
standing  singly  and  in  clusters,  and  under  the  morn- 
ing sun  presenting  a  most  novel  appearance.  They 
impede  the  skate,  and  are  presently  broken  down  and 
blown  about  by  the  wind. 

The  scenes  and  doings  of  summer  are  counterfeited 
in  other  particulars  upon  these  crystal  plains.  Some 
bright,  breezy  day  you  casually  glance  down  the  river 
and  behold  a  sail  —  a  sail  like  that  of  a  pleasure 
yacht  of  summer.  Is  the  river  open  again  below 
there,  is  your  first  half -defined  inquiry.  But  with 
what  unwonted  speed  the  sail  is  moving  across  the 
view  !  Before  you  have  fairly  drawn  another  breath 
it  has  turned,  unperceived,  and  is  shooting  with  equal 
swiftness  in  the  opposite  direction.  Who  ever  saw 
such  a  lively  sail !  It  does  not  bend  before  the  breeze, 
but  darts  to  and  fro  as  if  it  moved  in  a  vacuum,  or  like 
a  shadow  over  a  scene.  Then  you  remember  the  ice- 
boats, and  you  open  your  eyes  to  the  fact.  Another 
and  another  come  into  view  around  the  elbow,  turn- 
ing and  flashing  in  the  sun,  and  hurtling  across  each 
other's  path  like  white-winged  gulls.  They  turn  so 
quickly  and  dash  off  again  at  such  speed,  that  they 
produce  the  illusion  of  something  singularly  light  and 
intangible.  In  fact,  an  ice-boat  is  a  sort  of  disembod- 
ied yacht ;  it  is  a  sail  on  skates.  The  only  semblance 
to  a  boat  is  the  sail  and  the  rudder.  The  platform 
under  which  the  skates  or  runners  —  three  in  number 


214  A  RIVER   VIEW. 

—  are  rigged,  is  broad  and  low ;  upon  this  the  pleas- 
ure-seekers, wrapped  in  their  furs  or  blankets,  lie  at 
full  length,  and,  looking  under  the  sail,  skim  the 
frozen  surface  with  their  eyes.  The  speed  attained  is 
sometimes  very  great  —  more  than  a  mile  per  minute, 
and  sufficient  to  carry  them  ahead  of  the  fastest  ex- 
press train.  When  going  at  this  rate  the  boat  will 
leap  like  a  greyhound,  and  thrilling  stories  are  told  of 
the  fearful  crevasses,  or  open  places  in  the  ice,  that 
are  cleared  at  a  bound.  And  yet,  withal,  she  can  be 
brought  up  to  the  wind  so  suddenly  as  to  shoot  the 
unwary  occupants  off,  and  send  them  skating  on  their 
noses  some  yards. 

Navigation  on  the  Hudson  stops  about  the  last  of 
November.  There  is  usually  more  or  less  floating 
ice  by  that  time,  and  the  river  may  close  very  ab- 
ruptly. Beside  that,  new  ice  an  inch  or  two  thick  is 
the  most  dangerous  of  all ;  it  will  cut  through  a  ves- 
sel's hull  like  a  knife.  In  1875  there  was  a  sudden 
fall  of  the  mercury  the  28th  of  November.  The  hard 
and  merciless  cold  came  down  upon  the  naked  earth 
with  great  intensity.  On  the  29th  the  ground  was  a 
rock,  and,  after  the  sun  went  down,  the  sky  all  around 
the  horizon  looked  like  a  wall  of  chilled  iron.  The 
river  was  quickly  covered  with  great  floating  fields  of 
smooth,  thin  ice.  About  three  o'clock  the  next  morn- 
ing —  the  mercury  two  degrees  below  zero  —  the 
silence  of  our  part  of  the  river  was  suddenly  broken 
by  the  alarm  bell  of  a  passing  steamer ;  she  was  in 
the  jaws  of  the  icy  legions,  and  was  crying  for  help ; 


A  RIVER  VIEW.  215 

many  sleepers  along  shore  remembered  next  day  that 
the  sound  of  a  bell  had  floated  across  their  dreams, 
without  arousing  them.  One  man  was  awakened  be- 
fore long  by  a  loud  pounding  at  his  door.  On  open- 
ing it,  a  tall  form,  wet  and  icy,  fell  in  upon  him  with 
the  cry,  "  The  Sunnyside  is  sunk  !  "  The  man  proved 
to  be  one  of  her  officers  and  was  in  quest  of  help. 
He  had  made  his  way  up  a  long  hill  through  the 
darkness,  his  wet  clothes  freezing  upon  him,  and  his 
strength  gave  way  the  moment  succor  was  found. 
Other  dwellers  in  the  vicinity  were  aroused,  and  with 
their  boats  rendered  all  the  assistance  possible.  The 
steamer  sank  but  a  few  yards  from  shore,  only  a 
part  of  her  upper  deck  remaining  above  water,  yet  a 
panic  among  the  passengers  —  the  men  behaving  very 
badly  —  swamped  the  boats  as  they  were  being  filled 
with  the  women,  and  a  dozen  or  more  persons  were 
drowned. 

When  the  river  is  at  its  wildest,  usually  in  March, 
the  eagles  appear.  They  prowl  about  amid  the  ice- 
floes, alighting  upon  them  or  flying  heavily  above 
them  in  quest  of  fish,  or  a  wounded  duck  or  other 
game. 

I  have  counted  ten  of  these  noble  birds  at  one 
time,  some  seated  grim  and  motionless  upon  cakes  of 
ice,  —  usually  surrounded  by  crows,  —  others  flap- 
ping along,  sharply  scrutinizing  the  surface  beneath. 
Where  the  eagles  are,  there  the  crows  do  congregate. 
The  crow  follows  the  eagle  as  the  jackal  follows  the 
lion,  in  hope  of  getting  the  leavings  of  the  royal 


216  A  RIVER  VIEW. 

table.  Then  I  suspect  the  crow  is  a  real  hero-wor- 
shiper. I  have  seen  a  dozen  or  more  of  them  sitting 
in  a  circle  about  an  eagle  upon  the  ice,  all  with  their 
faces  turned  toward  him,  and  apparently  in  silent  ad- 
miration of  the  dusky  king. 

The  eagle  seldom  or  never  turns  his  back  upon  a 
storm.  I  think  he  loves  to  face  the  wildest  elemen- 
tal commotion.  I  shall  long  carry  the  picture  of  one 
I  saw  floating  northward  on  a  large  raft  of  ice  one 
day,  in  the  face  of  a  furious  gale  of  snow.  He  stood 
with  his  talons  buried  in  the  ice,  his  head  straight 
out  before  him,  his  closed  wings  showing  their  strong 
elbows  —  a  type  of  stern  defiance  and  power. 

This  great  metropolitan  river,  as  it  were,  with  its 
floating  palaces,  and  shores  lined  with  villas,  is  thus 
an  inlet  and  a  highway  of  the  wild  and  the  savage. 
The  wild  ducks  and  geese  still  follow  it  north  in 
spring,  and  south  in  the  fall.  The  loon  pauses  in  his 
migrations  and  disports  himself  in  its  waters.  Seals 
and  otters  are  occasionally  seen  in  it. 

Of  the  Hudson  it  may  be  said  that  it  is  a  very  large 
river  for  its  size,  —  that  is,  for  the  quantity  of  water 
it  discharges  into  the  sea.  Its  water-shed  is  compara- 
tively small  —  less,  I  think,  than  that  of  the  Con- 
necticut. 

It  is  a  huge  trough  with  a  very  slight  incline, 
through  which  the  current  moves  very  slowly,  and 
which  would  fill  from  the  sea  were  its  supplies  from 
the  mountains  cut  off.  Its  fall  from  Albany  to  the 
bay  is  only  about  five  feet.  Any  object  upon  it, 


A  RIVER  VIEW.  217 

drifting  with  the  current,  progresses  southward  no 
more  than  eight  miles  in  twenty-four  hours.  The 
ebb  tide  will  carry  it  about  twelve  miles,  and  the  flood 
set  it  back  from  seven  to  nine.  A  drop  of  water  at 
Albany,  therefore,  will  be  nearly  three  weeks  in 
reaching  New  York,  though  it  will  get  pretty  well 
pickled  some  days  earlier. 

Some  rivers  by  their  volume  and  impetuosity  pen- 
etrate the  sea,  but  here  the  sea  is  the  aggressor,  and 
sometimes  meets  the  mountain  water  nearly  half-way. 

This  fact  was  illustrated  a  few  years  ago,  when  the 
basin  of  the  Hudson  was  visited  by  one  of  the  most 
severe  droughts  ever  known  in  this  part  of  the  State. 
In  the  early  winter,  after  the  river  was  frozen  over 
above  Poughkeepsie,  it  was  discovered  that  immense 
numbers,  of  fish  were  retreating  up  stream  before  the 
slow  encroachment  of  the  salt  water.  There  was  a 
general  exodus  of  the  finny  tribes  from  the  whole 
lower  part  of  the  river ;  it  was  like  the  spring  and 
fall  migration  of  the  birds,  or  the  fleeing  of  the  pop- 
ulation of  a  district  before  some  approaching  danger : 
vast  swarms  of  cat-fish,  white  and  yellow  perch,  and 
striped  bass  were  en  route  for  the  fresh  water  farther 
north.  When  the  people  along  shore  made  the  dis- 
covery, they  turned  out  as  they  do  in  the  rural  dis- 
tricts when  the  pigeons  appear,  and,  with  small  gill- 
nets  let  down  through  holes  in  the  ice,  captured  them 
in  fabulous  numbers.  On  the  heels  of  the  retreating 
perch  and  cat-fish  came  the  denizens  of  the  salt  water, 
and  codfish  were  taken  ninety  miles  above  New  York. 


218  A  RIVER  VIEW. 

When  the  February  thaw  came  and  brought  up  the 
volume  of  fresh  water  again,  the  sea  brine  was  beaten 
back,  and  the  fish,  what  were  left  of  them,  resumed 
their  old  feeding-grounds. 

It  is  this  character  of  the  Hudson,  this  encroach- 
ment of  the  sea  upon  it,  that  has  led  Professor  New- 
berry  to  speak  of  it  as  a  drowned  river.  We  have 
heard  of  drowned  lands,  but  here  is  a  river  overflowed 
and  submerged  in  the  same  manner.  It  is  quite  cer- 
tain, however,  that  this  has  not  always  been  the  char- 
acter of  the  Hudson.  Its  great  trough  bears  evidence 
of  having  been  worn  to  its  present  dimensions  by 
much  swifter  and  stronger  currents  than  those  that 
course  through  it  now.  Hence,  Professor  Newberry 
has  advanced  the  bold  and  striking  theory  that  in 
pre-glacial  times  this  part  of  the  continent*was  sev- 
eral hundred  feet  higher  than  at  present,  and  that  the 
Hudson  was  then  a  very  large  and  rapid  stream, 
that  drew  its  main  supplies  from  the  basin  of  the 
Great  Lakes  through  an  ancient  river-bed  that  fol- 
lowed pretty  nearly  the  line  of  the  present  Mohawk ; 
in  other  words,  that  the  waters  of  the  St.  Lawrence 
once  found  an  outlet  through  this  channel,  debouching 
into  the  ocean  from  a  broad,  littoral  plain,  at  a  point 
eighty  miles  southeast  of  New  York,  where  the  sea 
now  rolls  500  feet  deep.  According  to  the  soundings 
of  the  coast  survey,  this  ancient  bed  of  the  Hudson  is 
distinctly  marked  upon  the  ocean  floor  to  the  point 
indicated. 

To  the  gradual  subsidence  of  this  part  of  the  con- 


A  RIVER   VIEW.  .    219 

tinent,  in  connection  with  the  great  changes  wrought 
by  the  huge  glacier  that  crept  down  from  the  north 
during  what  is  called  the  ice  period,  is  owing  the 
character  and  aspects  of  the  Hudson  as  we  see  and 
know  them.  The  Mohawk  valley  was  filled  up  by 
the  drift,  and  the  pent-up  waters  of  the  Great  Lakes 
found  an  opening  through  what  is  now  the  St.  Law- 
rence. The  trough  of  the  Hudson  was  also  partially 
filled:,  and  has  remained  so  to  the  present  day.  There 
is,  perhaps,  no  point  in  the  river  where  the  mud  and 
clay  are  not  from  two  to  three  times  as  deep  as  the 
water. 

That  ancient  and  grander  Hudson  lies  back  of  us 
several  hundred  thousand  years  —  perhaps  more,  for 
a  million  years  are  but  as  one  tick  of  the  time-piece  of 
the  Lord ;  yet  even  it  was  a  juvenile  compared  with 
some  of  the  rocks  and  mountains  the  Hudson  of  to-day 
mirrors.  The  Highlands  date  from  the  earliest  geo- 
logical age — the  primary;  the  river — the  old  river 
—  from  the  latest,  the  tertiary ;  and  what  that  differ- 
ence means  in  terrestrial  years  hath  not  entered  into 
the  mind  of  man  to  conceive.  Yet  how  the  venera- 
ble mountains  open  their  ranks  for  the  stripling  to 
pass  through.  Of  course  the  river  did  not  force  its 
way  through  this  barrier,  but  has  doubtless  found  an 
opening  there  of  which  it  has  availed  itself,  and 
which  it  has  enlarged.  % 

1  In  thinking  of  these  things,  one  only  has  to  allow 
I  time  enough,  and  the  most  stupendous  changes  in  the 
\topography  of  the  country  are  as  easy  and  natural  as 


220     »  A  RIVER  VIEW. 

the  going  out  or  the  coming  in  of  spring  or  summer. 
According  to  the  authority  above  referred  to,  that 
part  of  our  coast  that  flanks  the  mouth  of  the  Hudson 
is  still  sinking  at  the  rate  of  a  few  inches  per  century, 
so  that  in  the  twinkling  of  a  hundred  thousand  years 
or  so  the  sea  will  completely  submerge  the  city  of 
New  York,  the  top  of  Trinity  Church  steeple  alone 
standing  above  the  flood.  We  who  live  so  far  inland, 
and  sigh  for  the  salt  water,  need  only  to  have  a  little 
patience,  and  we  shall  wake  up  some  fine  morning 
and  find  the  surf  beating  upon  our  door-steps.] 


BIRD  ENEMIES. 


BIRD   ENEMIES. 

How  surely  the  birds  know  their  enemies  !  See 
how  the  wrens  and  robins  and  bluebirds  pursue  and 
scold  the  cat,  while  they  take  little  or  no  notice  of  the 
dog !  Even  the  swallow  will  fight  the  cat,  and,  re- 
lying too  confidently  upon  its  powers  of  flight,  some- 
times swoops  down  so  near  to  its  enemy  that  it  is 
caught  by  a  sudden  stroke  of  the  cat's  paw.  The 
only  case  I  know  of  in  which  our  small  birds  fail  to 
recognize  their  enemy  is  furnished  by  the  shrike ;  ap- 
parently the  little  birds  do  not  know  that  this  modest- 
colored  bird  is  an  assassin.  At  least  I  have  never 
seen  them  scold  or  molest  him,  or  utter  any  outcries 
at  his  presence,  as  they  usually  do  at  birds  of  prey. 
Probably  it  is  because  the  shrike  is  a  rare  visitant, 
and  is  not  found  in  this  part  of  the  country  during 
the  nesting  season  of  our  songsters. 

But  the  birds  have  nearly  all  found  out  the  trick 
of  the  jay,  and  when  he  conies  sneaking  through  the 
trees  in  May  arid  June  in  quest  of  eggs,  he  is  quickly 
exposed  and  roundly  abused.  It  is  amusing  to  see 
the  robins  hustle  him  out  of  the  tree  which  holds  their 
nest.  They  cry,  "  Thief,  thief  !  "  to  the  top  of  their 
voices  as  they  charge  upon  him,  and  the  jay  retorts  in 
a  voice  scarcely  less  complimentary  as  he  makes  off. 


224  BIRD  ENEMIES. 

The  jays  have  their  enemies  also,  and  need  to  keep 
an  eye  on  their  own  eggs.  It  would  be  interesting  to 
know  if  jays  ever  rob  jays,  or  crows  plunder  crows ; 
or  is  there  honor  among  thieves  even  in  the  feathered 
^tribes  ?  I  suspect  the  jay  is  often  punished  by  birds 
which  are  otherwise  innocent  of  nest-robbing.  One 
season  I  found  a  jay's  nest  in  a  small  cedar  on  the 
side  of  a  wooded  ridge.  It  held  five  eggs,  every  one 
of  which  had  been  punctured.  Apparently  some  bird 
had  driven  its  sharp  beak  through  their  shells,  with 
the  sole  intention  of  destroying  them,  for  no  part  of 
the  contents  of  the  eggs  had  been  removed.  It  looked 
like  a  case  of  revenge ;  as  if  some  thrush  or  warbler, 
whose  nest  had  suffered  at  the  hands  of  the  jays,  had 
watched  its  opportunity  and  had  in  this  way  retaliated 
upon  its  enemies.  An  egg  for  an  egg.  The  jays 
were  lingering  near,  very  demure  and  silent,  and 
probably  ready  to  join  a  crusade  against  nest-robbers. 

The  great  bugaboo  of  the  birds  is  the  owl.  The 
owl  snatches  them  from  off  their  roosts  at  night,  and 
gobbles  up  their  eggs  and  young  in  their  nests.  He 
is  a  veritable  ogre  to  them,  and  his  presence  fills 
them  with  consternation  and  alarm. 

One  season,  to  protect  my  early  cherries,  I  placed 
a  large  stuffed  owl  amid  the  branches  of  the  tree. 
Such  a  racket  as  there  instantly  began  about  my 
grounds  is  not  pleasant  to  think  upon  !  The  orioles 
and  robins  fairly  "  shrieked  out  their  affright."  The 
news  instantly  spread  in  every  direction,  and  appar- 
ently every  bird  in  town  came  to  see  that  owl  in  the 


BIRD  ENEMIES.  225 

cherry-tree,  and  every  bird  took  a  cherry,  so  that 
I  lost  more  fruit  than  if  I  had  left  the  owl  in- 
doors. With  craning  necks  and  horrified  looks  the 
birds  alighted  upon  the  branches,  and  between  their 
screams  would  snatch  off  a  cherry,  as  if  the  act  was 
some  relief  to  their  outraged  feelings. 

The  chirp  and  chatter  of  the  young  of  birds  which 
build  in  concealed  or  inclosed  places,  like  the  wood- 
peckers, the  house  wren,  the  high-hole,  the  oriole, 
etc.,  is  in  marked  contrast  to  the  silence  of  the 
fledgelings  of  most  birds  that  build  open  and  ex- 
posed nests.  The  young  of  the  sparrows,  —  unless  the 
social  sparrow  be  an  exception,  —  warblers,  fly-catch- 
ers, thrushes,  etc.,  never  allow  a  sound  to  escape 
them  ;  and  on  the  alarm  note  of  their  parents  being 
heard,  sit  especially  close  and  motionless,  while  the 
young  of  chimney  swallows,  woodpeckers,  and  orioles 
are  very  noisy.  The  latter,  in  its  deep  pouch,  is 
quite  safe  from  birds  of  prey,  except  perhaps  the 
owl.  The  owl,  I  suspect,  thrusts  its  leg  into  the 
cavities  of  woodpeckers  and  into  the  pocket-like  nest 
of  the  oriole,  and  clutches  and  brings  forth  the  birds 
in  its  talons.  In  one  case  which  I  heard  of,  a  screech- 
owl  had  thrust  its  claw  into  a  cavity  in  a  tree,  and 
grasped  the  head  of  a  red-headed  woodpecker  ;  being 
apparently  unable  to  draw  its  prey  forth,  it  had 
thrust  its  own  round  head  into  the  hole,  and  in  some 
way  became  fixed  there,  and  had  thus  died  with  the 
woodpecker  in  its  talons. 

The  life  of  birds  is  beset  with  dangers  and  mishaps 


226  BIRD  ENEMIES. 

of  which  we  know  little.  ^  One  day,  in  my  walk,  I 
came  upon  a  goldfinch  with  the  tip  of  one  wing 
securely  fastened  to  the  feathers  of  its  rump,  by  what 
appeared  to  be  the  silk  of  some  caterpillar.  The 
bird,  though  uninjured,  was  completely  crippled,  and 
could  not  fly  a  stroke.  Its  little  body  was  hot  and 
panting  in  my  hands,  as  I  carefully  broke  the  fetter. 
Then  it  darted  swiftly  away  with  a  happy  cry.  A 
record  of  all  the  accidents  and  tragedies  of  bird  life 
for  a  single  season  would  show  many  curious  inci- 
dents. A  friend  of  mine  opened  his  box  stove  one 
fall  to  kindle  a  fire  in  it,  when  he  beheld  in  the  black 
interior  the  desiccated  forms  of  two  bluebirds.  The 
birds  had  probably  taken  refuge  in  the  chimney  dur- 
ing some  cold  spring  storm,  and  had  come  down  the 
pipe  to  the  stove,  from  whence  they  were  unable  to 
ascend.  A  peculiarly  touching  little  incident  of  bird 
life  occurred  to  a  caged  female  canary.  Though  un- 
mated,  it  laid  some  eggs,  and  the  happy  bird  was  so 
carried  away  by  her  feelings  that  she  would  offer 
food  to  the  eggs,  and  chatter  and  twitter,  trying,  as 
it  seemed,  to  encourage  them  to  eat !  The  incident  is 
hardly  tragic,  neither  is  it  comic. 

Certain  birds  nest  in  the  vicinity  of  our  houses  and 
outbuildings,  or  even  in  and  upon  them,  for  protec- 
tion from  their  enemies,  but  they  often  thus  ex- 
pose themselves  to  a  plague  of  the  most  deadly  char- 
acter. 

I  refer  to  the  vermin  with  which  their  nests  often 
swarm,  and  which  kill  the  young  before  they  are 


BIRD  ENEMIES.  227 

fledged.  In  a  state  of  nature  this  probably  never 
happens ;  at  least  I  have  never  seen  or  heard  of  it 
happening  to  nests  placed  in  trees  or  under  rocks. 
It  is  the  curse  of  civilization  falling  upon  the  birds 
which  come  too  near  man.  The  vermin,  or  the  germ 
of  the  vermin,  is  probably  conveyed  to  the  nest  in 
hen's  feathers,  or  in  straws  and  hairs  picked  up  about 
the  barn  or  hen-house.  A  robin's  nest  upon  your 
porch  or  in  your  summer-house  will  occasionally  be- 
come an  intolerable  nuisance  from  the  swarms  upon 
swarms  of  minute  vermin  with  which  it  is  filled.  The 
parent  birds  stem  the  tide  as  long  as  they  can,  but 
are  often  compelled  to  leave  the  young  to  their  ter- 
rible fate. 

One  season  a  phoebe-bird  built  on  a  projecting 
stone  under  the  eaves  of  the  house,  and  all  appeared 
to  go  well  till  the  young  were  nearly  fledged,  when 
the  nest  suddenly  became  a  bit  of  purgatory.  The 
birds  kept  their  places  in  their  burning  bed  till  they 
could  hold  out  no  longer,  when  they  leaped  forth  and 
fell  dead  upon  the  ground. 

After  a  delay  of  a  week  or  more,  during  which  I 
imagine  the  parent  birds  purified  themselves  by  every 
means  known  to  them,  the  couple  built  another  nest  a 
few  yards  from  the  first,  and  proceeded  to  rear  a  sec- 
ond brood  ;  but  the  new  nest  developed  into  the  same 
bed  of  torment  that  the  first  did,  and  the  three  young 
birds,  nearly  ready  to  fly,  perished  as  they  sat  within 
it.  The  parent  birds  then  left  the  place  as  if  it  had 
been  accursed. 


228  BIRD  ENEMIES. 

I  imagine  the  smaller  birds  have  an  enemy  in  our 
native  white-footed  mouse,  though  I  have  not  proof 
enough  to  convict  him.  But  one  season  the  nest  of  a 
chickadee  which  I  was  observing  was  broken  up  in  a 
position  where  nothing  but  a  mouse  could  have  reached 
it.  The  bird  had  chosen  a  cavity  in  the  limb  of  an  ap- 
ple-tree which  stood  but  a  few  yards  from  the  house. 
The  cavity  was  deep,  and  the  entrance  to  it,  which  was 
ten  feet  from  the  ground,  was  small.  Barely  light 
enough  was  admitted,  when  the  sun  was  in  the  most  fa- 
vorable position,  to  enable  one  to  make  out  the  number 
of  eggs,  which  was  six,  at  the  bottom  of  the  dim  inte- 
rior. While  one  was  peering  in  and  trying  to  get  his 
head  out  of  his  own  light,  the  bird  would  startle  him  by 
a  queer  kind  of  puffing  sound.  She  would  not  leave 
her  nest  like  most  birds,  but  really  tried  to  blow,  or 
scare,  the  intruder  away  ;  and  after  repeated  experi- 
ments I  could  hardly  refrain  from  jerking  my  head 
back  when  that  little  explosion  of  sound  came  up 
from  the  dark  interior.  One  night,  when  incubation 
was  about  half  finished,  the  nest  was  harried.  A 
slight  trace  of  hair  or  fur  at  the  entrance  led  me  to 
infer  that  some  small  animal  was  the  robber.  A 
weasel  might  have  done  it,  as  they  sometimes  climb 
trees,  but  I  doubt  if  either  a  squirrel  or  a  rat  could 
have  passed  the  entrance. 

Probably  few  persons  have  ever  suspected  the  cat- 
bird of  being  an  egg-sucker ;  I  do  not  know  as  she 
has  ever  been  accused  of  such  a  thing,  but  there 
is  something  uncanny  and  disagreeable  about  her, 


BIRD  ENEMIES.  229 

which  I  at  once  understood,  when  I  one  day  caught 
her  in  the  very  act  of  going  through  a  nest  of  eggs. 

A  pair  of  the  least  fly-catchers,  the  bird  which  says 
cJiebeque,  chebeque,  and  is  a  small  edition  of  the  pewee, 
one  season  built  their  nest  where  I  had  them  for  many 
hours  each  day  under  my  observation.  The  nest  was 
a  very  snug  and  compact  structure  placed  in  the  forks 
of  a  small  maple  about  twelve  feet  from  the  ground. 
The  season  before  a  red  squirrel  had  harried  the  nest 
of  a  wood-thrush  in  this  same  tree,  and  I  was  appre- 
hensive that  he  would  serve  the  fly-catchers  the  same 
trick ;  so,  as  I  sat  with  my  book  in  a  summer-house 
near  by,  1  kept  my  loaded  gun  within  easy  reach. 
One  egg  was  laid,  and  the  next  morning,  as  I  made 
my  daily  inspection  of  the  nest,  only  a  fragment  of 
its  empty  shell  was  to  be  found.  This  I  removed, 
mentally  imprecating  the  rogue  of  a  red  squirrel. 
The  birds  were  much  disturbed  by  the  event,  but  did 
not  desert  the  nest,  as  I  had  feared  they  would,  but 
after  much  inspection  of  it  and  many  consultations 
together,  concluded,  it  seems,  to  try  again.  Two 
more  eggs  were  laid,  when  one  day  I  heard  the  birds 
utter  a  sharp  cry,  and  on  looking  up  I  saw  a  cat-bird 
perched  upon  the  rim  of  the  nest,  hastily  devouring 
the  eggs.  I  soon  regretted  my  precipitation  in  kill- 
ing her,  because  such  interference  is  generally  unwise. 
It  turned  out  that  she  had  a  nest  of  her  own  with  five 
eggs,  in  a  spruce  tree  near  my  window. 

Then  this  pair  of  little  fly-catchers  did  what  I  had 
never  seen  birds  do  before ;  they  pulled  the  nest  to 


230  BIRD  ENEMIES. 

pieces  and  rebuilt  it  in  a  peach-tree  not  many  rods 
away,  where  a  brood  was  successfully  reared.  The 
nest  was  here  exposed  to  the  direct  rays  of  the  noon- 
day sun,  and  to  shield  her  young  when  the  heat  was 
greatest,  the  mother-bird  would  stand  above  them 
with  wings  slightly  spread,  as  other  birds  have  been 
known  to  do  under  like  circumstances. 

To  what  extent  the  cat-bird  is  a  nest-robber  I  have 
no  evidence,  but  that  feline  mew  of  hers,  and  that 
flirting,  flexible  tail,  suggest  something  not  entirely 
bird-like. 

Probably  the  darkest  tragedy  of  the  nest  is  enacted 
when  a  snake  plunders  it.  All  birds  and  animals,  so 
far  as  I  have  observed,  behave  in  a  peculiar  manner 
toward  a  snake.  They  seem  to  feel  something  of  the 
same  loathing  toward  it  that  the  human  species  expe- 
rience. The  bark  of  a  dog  when  he  encounters  a 
snake  is  different  from  that  which  he  gives  out  on 
any  other  occasion  ;  it  is  a  mingled  note  of  alarm, 
inquiry,  and  disgust. 

One  day  a  tragedy  was  enacted  a  few  yards  from 
where  I  was  sitting  with  a  book ;  two  song-sparrows 
were  trying  to  defend  their  nest  against  a  black 
snake.  The  curious,  interrogating  note  of  a  chicken 
who  had  suddenly  come  upon  the  scene  in  his  walk, 
first  caused  me  to  look  up  from  my  reading.  There 
were  the  sparrows,  with  wings  raised  in  a  way  pecul- 
iarly expressive  of  horror  and  dismay,  rushing  about 
a  low  clump  of  grass  and  bushes.  Then,  looking  more 
closely,  I  saw  the  glistening  form  of  the  black  snake, 


BIRD   ENEMIES.  231 

and  the  quick  movement  of  his  head  as  he  tried  to 
seize  the  birds.  The  sparrows  darted  about  and 
through  the  grass  and  weeds,  trying  to  beat  the 
snake  off.  Their  tails  and  wings  were  spread,  and, 
panting  with  the  heat  and  the  desperate  struggle, 
they  presented  a  most  singular  spectacle.  They  ut- 
tered no  cry,  not  a  sound  escaped  them ;  they  were 
plainly  speechless  with  horror  and  dismay.  Not 
once  did  they  drop  their  wings,  and  the  peculiar  ex- 
pression of  those  uplifted  palms,  as  it  were,  I  shall 
never  forget.  It  occurred  to  me  that  perhaps  here 
was  a  case  of  attempted  bird-charming  on  the  part  of 
the  snake,  so  I  looked  on  from  behind  the  fence.  The 
birds  charged  the  snake  and  harassed  him  from  every 
side,  but  were  evidently  under  no  spell  save  that  of 
courage  in  defending  their  nest.  Every  moment  or 
two  I  could  see  the  head  and  neck  of  the  serpent 
make  a  sweep  at  the  birds,  when  the  one  struck  at 
would  fall  back,  and  the  other  would  renew  the  as- 
sault from  the  rear.  There  appeared  to  be  little  dan- 
ger that  the  snake  could  strike  and  hold  one  of  the 
birds,  though  I  trembled  for  them,  they  were  so  bold 
and  approached  so  near  to  the  snake's  head.  Time 
and  again  he  sprang  at  them,  but  without  success. 
How  the  poor  things  panted,  and  held  up  their  wings 
appealingly  !  Then  the  snake  glided  off  to  the  near 
fence,  barely  escaping  the  stone  which  I  hurled  at 
him.  I  found  the  nest  rifled  and  deranged ;  whether 
it  had  contained  eggs  or  young  I  know  not.  The 
male  sparrow  had  cheered  me  many  a  day  with  his 


232  BIRD  ENEMIES. 

song,  and  I  blamed  myself  for  not  having  rushed  at 
once  to  the  rescue,  when  the  arch  enemy  was  upon 
him.  There  is  probably  little  truth  in  the  popular 
notion  that  snakes  charm  birds.  The  black  snake  is 
the  most  subtle,  alert,  and  devilish  of  our  snakes,  and 
I  have  never  seen  him  have  any  but  young,  helpless 
birds  in  his  mouth. 

We  have  one  parasitical  bird,  the  cow-bird,  so  called 
because  it  walks  about  amid  the  grazing  cattle  and 
seizes  the  insects  which  their  heavy  tread  sets  going, 
which  is  an  enemy  of  most  of  the  smaller  birds.  It 
drops  its  egg  in  the  nest  of  the  song-sparrow,  the 
social  sparrow,  the  snow-bird,  the  vireos,  and  the 
wood-warblers,  and  as  a  rule  it  is  the  only  egg  in 
the  nest  that  issues  successfully.  Either  the  eggs  of 
the  rightful  owner  of  the  nest  are  not  hatched,  or 
else  the  young  are  overridden  and  overreached  by 
the  parasite  and  perish  prematurely. 

Among  the  worst  enemies  of  our  birds  are  the  so- 
called  "  collectors,"  men  who  plunder  nests  and  mur- 
der their  owners  in  the  name  of  science.  Not  the 
genuine  ornithologist,  for  no  one  is  more  careful  of 
squandering  bird  life  than  he  ;  but  the  sham  ornithol- 
ogist, the  man  whose  vanity  or  affectation  happens  to 
take  an  ornithological  turn.  He  is  seized  with  an 
itching  for  a  collection  of  eggs  and  birds  because  it 
happens  to  be  the  fashion,  or  because  it  gives  him  the 
air  of  a  man  of  science.  But  in  the  majority  of  cases 
the  motive  is  a  mercenary  one  ;  the  collector  expects 
to  sell  these  spoils  of  the  groves  and  orchards.  Rob- 


OL: 


BIRD  ENEMIES. 


bing  nests  and  killing  birds  becomes  a  business  with 
him.  He  goes  about  it  systematically,  and  becomes 
an  expert  in  circumventing  and  slaying  our  songsters. 
Every  town  of  any  considerable  size  is  infested  with 
one  or  more  of  these  bird  highwaymen,  and  every 
nest  in  the  country  round  about  that  the  wretches  can 
lay  hands  on  is  harried.  Their  professional  term  for 
a  nest  of  eggs  is  "  a  clutch,"  a  word  that  well  ex- 
presses the  work  of  their  grasping,  murderous  fingers. 
They  clutch  and  destroy  in  the  germ  the  life  and 
music  of  the  woodlands.  Certain  of  our  natural  his- 
tory journals  are  mainly  organs  of  communication  be- 
tween these  human  weasels.  They  record  their  ex- 
exploits  at  nest-robbing  and  bird  -slaying  in  their 
columns.  One  collector  tells  with  gusto  how  he 
"  worked  his  way  "  through  an  orchard,  ransacking 
every  tree  and  leaving,  as  he  believed,  not  one  nest 
behind  him.  He  had  better  not  be  caught  working 
his  way  through  my  orchard.  Another  gloats  over 
the  number  of  Connecticut  warblers  —  a  rare  bird  — 
he  killed  in  one  season  in  Massachusetts.  Another 
tells  how  a  mocking-bird  appeared  in  southern  New 
England  and  was  hunted  down  by  himself  and  friend, 
its  eggs  "  clutched,"  and  the  bird  killed.  Who  knows 
how  much  the  bird  lovers  of  New  England  lost  by 
that  foul  deed  ?  The  progeny  of  the  birds  would 
probably  have  returned  to  Connecticut  to  breed,  and 
their  progeny,  or  a  part  of  them,  the  same,  till  in 
time  the  famous  southern  songster  would  have  become 
a  regular  visitant  to  New  England.  In  the  same  jour- 


234  BIRD   ENEMIES. 

nal  still  another  collector  describes  minutely  how  he 
outwitted  three  humming-birds  and  captured  their 
nests  and  eggs,  —  a  clutch  he  was  very  proud  of. 
A  Massachusetts  bird  harrier  boasts  of  his  clutch  of 
the  eggs  of  that  dainty  little  warbler,  the  blue  yellow- 
back. One  season  he  took  two  sets,  the  next  five  sets, 
the  next  four  sets,  beside  some  single  eggs,  and  the 
next  season  four  sets,  and  says  he  might  have  found 
more  had  he  had  more  time.  One  season  he  took, 
in  about  twenty  days,  three  sets  from  one  tree.  I 
have  heard  of  a  collector  who  boasted  of  having  taken 
one  hundred  sets  of  the  eggs  of  the  marsh  wren  in  a 
single  day ;  of  another,  who  took,  in  the  same  time, 
thirty  nests  of  the  yellow-breasted  chat ;  and  of  still 
another,  who  claimed  to  have  taken  one  thousand  sets 
of  eggs  of  different  birds  in  one  season.  A  large 
business  has  grown  up  under  the  influence  of  this  col- 
lecting craze.  One  dealer  in  eggs  has  those  of  over 
five  hundred  species.  He  says  that  his  business  in 
1883  was  twice  that  of  1882 ;  in  1884  it  was  twice 
that  of  1883,  and  so  on.  Collectors  vie  with  each 
other  in  the  extent  and  variety  of  their  cabinets. 
They  not  only  obtain  eggs  in  sets,  but  aim  to  have  a 
number  of  sets  of  the  same  bird  so  as  to  show  all  pos- 
sible variations.  I  hear  of  a  private  collection  that 
contains  twelve  sets  of  king-birds'  eggs,  eight  sets  of 
house-wrens'  eggs,  four  sets  of  mocking-birds'  eggs, 
etc. ;  sets  of  eggs  taken  in  low  trees,  high  trees,  me- 
dium trees ;  spotted  sets,  dark  sets,  plain  sets,  and 
light  sets  of  the  same  species  of  bird.  Many  collec- 
tions are  made  on  this  latter  plan. 


BIRD  ENEMIES.  235 

Thus  are  our  birds  hunted  and  cut  off,  and  all  in 
the  name  of  science ;  as  if  science  had  not  long  ago 
finished  with  these  birds.  She  has  weighed  and  meas- 
ured and  dissected  and  described  them  and  their  nests 
and  eggs,  and  placed  them  in  her  cabinet ;  and  the 
interest  of  science  and  of  humanity  now  demands  that 
this  wholesale  nest-robbing  cease.  These  incidents  I 
have  given  above,  it  is  true,  are  but  drops  in  the 
bucket,  but  the  bucket  would  be  more  than  full  if  we 
could  get  all  the  facts.  Where  one  man  publishes  his 
notes,  hundreds,  perhaps  thousands,  say  nothing,  but 
go  as  silently  about  their  nest-robbing  as  weasels. 

It  is  true  that  the  student  of  ornithology  often  feels 
compelled  to  take  bird-life.  It  is  not  an  easy  matter 
to  "  name  all  the  birds  without  a  gun,"  though  an 
opera -glass  will  often  render  identification  entirely 
certain,  and  leave  the  songster  unharmed ;  but  once 
having  mastered  the  birds,  the  true  ornithologist 
leaves  his  gun  at  home.  This  view  of  the  case  may 
not  be  agreeable  to  that  desiccated  mortal  called  the 
"closet  naturalist,"  but  for  my  own  part  the  closet 
naturalist  is  a  person  with  whom  I  have  very  little 
sympathy.  He  is  about  the  most  wearisome  and 
profitless  creature  in  existence.  With  his  piles  of 
skins,  his  cases  .of  eggs,  his  laborious  feather-split- 
ting, and  his  outlandish  nomenclature,  he  is  not  only 
the  enemy  of  the  birds  but  the  enemy  of  all  those 
who  would  know  them  rightly. 

Not  the  collectors  alone  are  to  blame  for  the  di- 
minishing numbers  of  our  wild  birds,  but  a  large 


236  BIRD   ENEMIES. 

share  of  the  responsibility  rests  upon  quite  a  differ- 
ent class  of  persons,  namely,  the  milliners.  False 
taste  in  dress  is  as  destructive  to  our  feathered  friends 
as  are  false  aims  in  science.  It  is  said  that  the  traffic 
in  the  skins  of  our  brighter  plumaged  birds,  arising 
from  their  use  by  the  milliners,  reaches  to  hundreds 
of  thousands  annually.  I  am  told  of  one  middleman 
who  collected  from  the  shooters  in  one  district,  in  four 
months,  seventy  thousand  skins.  It  is  a  barbarous 
taste  that  craves  this  kind  of  ornamentation.  Think 
of  a  woman  or  girl  of  real  refinement  appearing  upon 
the  street  with  her  head  gear  adorned  with  the  scalps 
of  our  songsters  ! 

It  is  probably  true  that  the  number  of  our  birds 
destroyed  by  man  is  but  a  small  percentage  of  the 
number  cut  off  by  their  natural  enemies ;  but  it  is  to 
be  remembered  that  those  he  destroys  are  in  addition 
to  those  thus  cut  off,  and  that  it  is  this  extra  or  ar- 
tificial destruction  that  disturbs  the  balance  of  nature. 
The  operation  of  natural  causes  keeps  the  birds  in 
check,  but  the  greed  of  the  collectors  and  milliners 
tends  to  their  extinction. 

I  can  pardon  a  man  who  wishes  to  make  a  collec- 
tion of  eggs  and  birds  for  his  own  private  use,  if  he 
will  content  himself  with  one  or  two  specimens  of  a 
kind,  though  he  will  find  any  collection  much  less 
satisfactory  and  less  valuable  than  he  imagines,  but 
the  professional  nest-robber  and  skin  collector  should 
be  put  down,  either  by  legislation  or  with  dogs  and 
shot-guns. 


BIRD   ENEMIES.  237 

I  have  remarked  above  that  there  is  probably  very 
little  truth  in  the  popular  notion  that  snakes  can 
"  charm  "  birds.  But  two  of  my  correspondents  have 
each  furnished  me  with  an  incident  from  his  own  ex- 
perience, which  seems  to  confirm  the  popular  belief. 
One  of  them  writes  from  Georgia  as  follows :  — 

"  Some  twenty-eight  years  ago  I  was  in  Calaveras 
County,  California,  engaged  in  cutting  lumber.  One 
day  in  coming  out  of  the  camp  or  cabin,  my  attention 
was  attracted  to  the  curious  action  of  a  quail  in  the 
air,  which,  instead  of  flying  low  and  straight  ahead  as 
usual,  was  some  fifty  feet  high,  flying  in  a  circle,  and 
uttering  cries  of  distress.  I  watched  the  bird  and 
saw  it  gradually  descend,  and  following  with  my  eye 
in  a  line  from  the  bird  to  the  ground  saw  a  large 
snake  with  head  erect  and  some  ten  or  twelve  inches 
above  the  ground,  and  mouth  wide  open,  and  as  far 
as  I  could  see,  gazing  intently  on  the  quail  (I  was 
about  thirty  feet  from  the  snake).  The  quail  gradu- 
ally descended,  its  circles  growing  smaller  and  smaller 
and  all  the  time  uttering  cries  of  distress,  until  its  feet 
were  within  two  or  three  inches  of  the  mouth  of  the 
snake  ;  when  I  threw  a  stone,  and  though  not  hitting 
the  snake,  yet  struck  the  ground  so  near  as  to  frighten 
him,  and  he  gradually  started  off.  The  quail,  how- 
ever, fell  to  the  ground,  apparently  lifeless.  I  went 
forward  and  picked  it  up  and  found  it  was  thoroughly 
overcome  with  fright,  its  little  heart  beating  as  if  it 
would  burst  through  the  skin.  After  holding  it  in 
my  hand  a  few  moments  it  flew  away.  I  then  tried 


238  BIRD  ENEMIES. 

to  find  the  snake,  but  could  not.  I  am  unable  to  say 
whether  the  snake  was  venomous  or  belonged  to  the 
constricting  family,  like  the  black  snake.  I  can  well 
recollect  it  was  large  and  moved  off  rather  slow.  As 
I  had  never  seen  anything  of  the  kind  before,  it  made 
a  great  impression  on  my  mind,  and  after  the  lapse 
of  so  long  a  time,  the  incident  appears  as  vivid  to 
me  as  though  it  had  occurred  yesterday." 

It  is  not  probable  that  the  snake  had  its  mouth 
open  ;  its  darting  tongue  may  have  given  that  impres- 
sion. 

The  other  incident  comes  to  me  from  Vermont. 
"While  returning  from  church  in  1876,"  says  the 
writer,  "  as  I  was  crossing  a  bridge  ...  I  noticed  a 
striped  snake  in  the  act  of  charming  a  song-sparrow. 
They  were  both  upon  the  sand  beneath  the  bridge. 
The  snake  kept  his  head  swaying  slowly  from  side  to 
side  and  darted  his  tongue  out  continually.  The 
bird,  not  over  a  foot  away,  was  facing  the  snake,  hop- 
ping from  one  foot  to  the  other,  and  uttering  a  dis- 
satisfied little  chirp.  I  watched  them  till  the  snake 
seized  the  bird,  having  gradually  drawn  nearer.  As 
he  seized  it,  I  leaped  over  the  side  of  the  bridge ; 
the  snake  glided  away  and  I  took  up  the  bird,  which 
he  had  dropped.  It  was  too  frightened  to  try  to  fly, 
and  I  carried  it  nearly  a  mile  before  it  flew  from  my 
open  hand." 

If  these  observers  are  quite  sure  of  what  they  saw, 
then  undoubtedly  snakes  have  the  power  to  draw 
birds  within  their  grasp.  I  remember  that  my 


BIRD   ENEMIES.  239 

mother  once  told  me  that  while  gathering  wild  straw- 
berries she  had  on  one  occasion  come  upon  a  hird 
fluttering  about  the  head  of  a  snake  as  if  held  there 
by  a  spell.  On  her  appearance,  the  snake  lowered  its 
head  and  made  off,  and  the  panting  bird  flew  away. 
A  black  snake  was  killed  by  a  neighbor  of  mine 
which  had  swallowed  a  full-grown  red  squirrel,  prob- 
ably captured  by  the  same  power  of  fascination. 


PHASES  OF  FAKM  LIFE. 


PHASES  OF  FARM  LIFE. 

HAVE  thought  that  a  good  test  of  civilization,  per- 
haps  one  of  the  best,  is  country  life.  Where  country 
life  is  safe  and  enjoyable,  where  many  of  the  con- 
veniences and  appliances  of  the  town  are  joined  to  the 
large  freedom  and  large  benefits  of  the  country,  a  high 
state  of  civilization  prevails.  Is  there  any  proper 
country  life  in  Spain,  in  Mexico,  in  the  South  Amer- 
ican States  ?  I  Man  has  always  dwelt  in  cities,  but  he 
has  not  always  in  the  same  sense  been  a  dweller  in 
the  country.  Rude  and  barbarous  people  build  cities. 
Hence,  paradoxical  as  it  may  seem,  the  city  is  older 
than  the  country.  Truly,  man  made  the  city,  and  after 
he  became  sufficiently  civilized,  not  afraid  of  solitude, 
and  knew  on  what  terms  to  live  with  nature,  God  pro- 
moted him  to  life  in  the  country.  The  necessities  of 
defense,  the  fear  of  enemies,  built  the  first  city,  built 
Rome,  Athens,  Carthage,  Paris.  The  weaker  the 
law,  the  stronger  the  city.  After  Cain  slew  Abel  he 
went  out  and  built  a  city,  and  murder  or  the  fear  of 
murder,  robbery  or  the  fear  of  robbery,  have  built 
most  of  the  cities  since.;  Penetrate  into  the  heart  of 
Africa,  and  you  will  find  the  people,  or  tribes,  all  liv- 
ing in  villages  or  little  cities.  You  step  from  the 
jungle  or  forest  into  the  town;  there  is  no  country. 


244  PHASES   OF  FARM   LIFE. 

The  best  and  most  hopeful  feature  in  any  people 
is  undoubtedly  the  instinct  that  leads  them  to  the 
country  and  to  take  root  there,  and  not  that  which 
sends  them  flocking  to  the  town  and  its  distractions. 

The  lighter  the  snow,  the  more  it  drifts,  and  the 
more  frivolous  the  people,  the  more  they  are  blown  by 
one  wind  or  another  into  towns  and  cities. 

The  only  notable  exception  I  recall  to  city  life  pre- 
ceding country  life  is  furnished  by  the  ancient  Ger- 
J  mans,  of  whom  Tacitus  says  that  they  had  no  cities  or 
contiguous  settlements.  "  They  dwell  scattered  and 
separate,  as  a  spring,  a  meadow,  or  a  grove  may 
chance  to  invite  them.  Their  villages  are  laid  out 
not  like  ours  [the  Romans]  in  rows  of  adjoining 
buildings,  but  every  one  surrounds  his  house  with  a 
vacant  space,  either  by  way  of  security,  or  against 
fire,  or  through  ignorance  of  the  art  of  building." 

These  ancient  Germans  were  indeed  true  country- 
men. Little  wonder  that  they  overran  the  empire 
of  the  city-loving  Romans,  and  finally  sacked  Rome 
itself.  How  hairy  and  hardy  and  virile  they  were ! 
In  the  same  way  is  the  more  fresh  and  vigorous  blood 
of  the  country  always  making  eruptions  into  the 
city.  The  Goths  and  Vandals  from  the  woods  and 
the  farms  —  what  would  Rome  do  without  them,  after 
all?  The  city  rapidly  uses  men  up;  families  run 
out,  man  becomes  sophisticated  and  feeble.  A  fresh 
stream  of  humanity  is  always  setting  from  the  coun- 
try into  the  city ;  a  stream  not  so  fresh  flows  back 
again  into  the  country,  a  stream  for  the  most  part  of 


PHASES   OF   FARM  LIFE.  145 

jaded  and  pale  humanity.     It  is  arterial  blood  when  -^? 
it  flows  in,  and  venous  blood  when  it  comes  back. 

A  nation  always  begins  to  rot  first  in  its  great  cities, 
is  indeed  perhaps  always  rotting  there,  and  is  saved 
only  by  the  antiseptic  virtues  of  fresh  supplies  of 
country  blood. 

But  it  is  not  of  country  life  in  general  that  I  am  to 
speak,  but  of  some  phases  of  farm  life,  and  of  farm 
life  in  my  native  State.  ^ 

Many  of  the  early  settlers  of  New  York  were  from 
New  England,  Connecticut  perhaps  sending  out  the 
most.  My  own  ancestors  were  from  the  latter  State. 
The  Connecticut  emigrant  usually  made  his  first  stop 
in  our  river  counties,  Putnam,  Dutchess,  or  Columbia. 
If  he  failed  to  find  his  place  there,  he  made  another 
flight  to  Orange,  to  Delaware,  or  to  Schoharie  County, 
where  he  generally  stuck.  But  the  State  early  had 
one  element  introduced  into  its  rural  and  farm  life 
not  found  farther  East,  namely,  the  Holland  Dutch. 
These  gave  features  more  or  less  picturesque  to  the  „ 
country  that  are  not  observable  in  New  England. 
The  Dutch  took  root  at  various  points  along  the  Hud- 
son, and  about  Albany  and  in  the  Mohawk  valley, 
and  remnants  of  their  rural  and  domestic  architect- 
ure  may  still  be  seen  in  these  sections  of  the  State.1 
A  Dutch  barn  became  proverbial.  "  As  broad  as  a 
Dutch  barn  "  was  a  phrase  that,  when  applied  to  the  "y> 
person  of  a  man  or  woman,  left  room  for  little  more 
to  be  said.  The  main  feature  of  these  barns  was 


246  PHASES   OF  FARM  LIFE. 

(•  their  enormous  expansion  of  roof.     It  was  a  comfort 
to  look  at  them,  they  suggested  such  shelter  and  pro- 
tection.    The  eaves  were  very  low  and  the  ridge-pole 
v  ^very  high.     Long  rafters  and  short  posts  gave  them 
a  quaint,  short-waisted,   grandmotherly  look.     They 
were  nearly  square  and  stood  very  broad  upon  the 
ground.     Their  form  was  doubtless  suggested  by  the 
damper  climate  of  the  Old  World,  where  the   grain 
^  and  hay,  instead  of  being  packed  in  deep  solid  mows, 
used  to  be  spread  upon  poles  and  exposed  to  the  cur- 
rents of  air  under  the  roof.     Surface  and  not  cubic 
\^       capacity  is  more  important  in  these  matters  in  Hol- 
land than  in  this  country.     Our  farmers  have  found 
that  in  a  climate  where  there  is  so  much  weather  as 
with  us  the  less  roof  you  have  the  better.     Roofs  will 

^  leak,  and  cured  hay  will  keep  sweet  in  a  mow  of  any 
depth  and  size  in  our  dry  atmosphere. 

The  Dutch  barn  was  the  most  picture'sque  barn  that 
has  been  built,  especially  when  thatched  with  straw,  as 
they  nearly  all  were,  and  forming  one  side  of  an  inclos- 
ure  of  lower  roofs  or  sheds  also  covered  with  straw, 
beneath  which  the  cattle  took  refuge  from  the  winter 
storms.  Its  immense,  unpainted  gable",  cut  with  holes 

*  /  for  the  swallows,  was  like  a  section  of  a  respectable 
sized  hill,  and  its  roof  like  its  slope^  Its  great  doors 
always  had  a  hood  projecting  over  them,  and  the  doors 
themselves  were  divided  horizontally  into  upper  and 
lower  halves ;  the  upper  halves  very  frequently  being 

^  left  open,  through  which  you  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
mows  of  hay  or  the  twinkle  of  flails  when  the  grain 
was  being  threshed. 


PHASES   OF   FARM  LIFE.  247 

w 

The  old  Dutch  farm-Rouses,  too,  were  always  pleas- 
ing to  look  upon.  They  were  low,  often  made  of 
stone,  with  deep  window  jambs  and  gre_at  family  fire- 
places. The  outside  door,  like  that  of  the  barn,  was 
always  divided  into  upper  and  lower  halves.  When 
the  weather  permitted  the  upper  half  could  stand 
open,  giving  light  and  air  without  the  cold  draught 
over  the  floor  where  the  children  were  playing,  that 
our  wide-swung  doors  admit.  This  feature  of  the 
Dutch  house  and  barn  certainly  merits  preservation 
in  our  modern  buildings. 

>,  (\\WAA  The  large,  unpainted  timber  barns  that  succeeded 
the  first  Yankee  settlers'  log  stables  were  also  pictur- 
esque, especially  when  a  lean-to  for  the  cow-stable 
was  added  and  the  roof  carried  down  with  a  long 
sweep  over  it ;  or  when  the  barn  was  flanked  by  an 
open  shed  with  a  hay-loft  above  it,  where  the  hens 
cackled  and  hid  their  nests,  and  frpm  the  open  win- 
dow of  which  the  hay  was  always  hanging.  i~*t^s**++ 

Then  the  great  timbers  of  these  barns  and  the 
Dutch  barn,  hewn  from  maple  or  birch  or  oak  trees 
from  the  primitive  woods,  and  put  in  place  by  the 
combined  strength  of  all  the  brawny  arms  in  the 
neighborhood,  when  the  barn  was  raised,  —  timbers 
strong  enough  and  heavy  enough  for  docks  and 
quays,  and  that  have  absorbed  the  odors  of  the  hay 
and  grain  until  they  look  ripe  and  mellow  and  full  of 
the  pleasing  sentiment  of  the  great,  sturdy,  bountiful 
interior !  The  "  big  beam  "  has  become  smooth  and 
polished  from  the  TiayT;hat  has  been  pitched  over  it 


248  PHASES   OF  FARM  LIFE. 

and  the  sweaty,  sturdy  forms  that  have  crossed  it.  One 
feels  that  he  would  like  a  piece  of  furniture  —  a  chair, 
N  or  a  table,  or  a  writing-desk,  a  bedstead,  or  a  wainscot- 
ing made  from  these  long-seasoned,  long-tried,  richly 
&&+**  *  toned  timbers  of  the  old  barn.  But  the  smart-painted, 
natty  barn  that  follows  the  humbler  structure,  with  its 
glazed  windows,  its  ornamented  ventilator  and  gilded 
weather  vane  —  who  cares  to  contemplate  it  ?  \The 
'vV^wise  human  eye  loves  modesty  and  humility,  loves 
plain,  simple  structures,  loves  the  unpainted  barn  that 
took  no  thought  of  itself,  or  the  dwelling  that  looks 
inward  and  not  outward  ;  is  offended  when  the  farm 
I  buildings  get  above  their  business  and  aspire  to  be 
something  on  their  own  account,  suggesting  not  cattle 
and  crops  and  plain  living,  but  the  vanities  of  the 
town  and  the  pride  of  dress  and  equipage.) 

Indeed,  the  picturesque  in  human  affairs  and  occu- 
pations is  always  born  of  love  and  humility,  as  it  is 
in  art  or  literature ;  and  it  quickly  takes  to  itself 
wings  and  flies  away  at  the  advent  of  pride,  or  any 
selfish  or  unworthy  motive.  The  more  directly  the 
farm  savors  of  the  farmer,  the  more  the  fields  and 
buildings  are  redolent  of  human  care  and  toil,  with- 
out any  thought  of  the  passer-by  —  the  more  we  de- 
light in  the  contemplation  of  it. 

It  is  unquestionably  true  that  farm  life  and  farm 

scenes  in  this  country  are  less  picturesque  than  they 

were  fifty  or  one  hundred  years  ago.     This  is  owing 

\    partly  to  the  advent  of  machinery,  which  enables  the 

farmer  to  do  so  much  of  his  work  by  proxy  and  hence 


^ 

PHASES  OF  FARM  LIFE.  249 

removes  him  farther  from  the  soil,  and  partly  to  the 
growing  distaste  for  the  occupation  among  our  peo- 
ple. The  old  settlers  —  our  fathers  and  grandfathers 
—  loved  the  farm,  and  had  no  thoughts  above  it ;  but 
the  later  generations  are  looking  to  the  town  and  its 
fashions,  and  only  waiting  for  a  chance  to  flee  thither. 
Then  pioneer  life  is  always  more  or  less  picturesque ; 
there  is  no  room  for  vain  and  foolish  thoughts ;  it  is 
a  hard  battle,  and  the  people  have  no  time  to  think 
about  appearances.  When  my  grandfather  and  grand- 
mother came  into  the  country  where  they  reared  their 
family  and  passed  their  days,  they  cut  a  road  through 
the  woods  and  brought  all  their  worldly  gear  on  a 
sled  drawn  by  a  yoke  of  oxen.  Their  neighbors 
helped  them  build  a  house  of  logs,  with  a  roof  of 
black  ash  bark  and  a  floor  of  hewn  white  ash  plank. 
A  great  stone  chimney  and  fire-place  —  the  mortar 
of  red  clay  —  gave  light  and  warmth,  and  cooked  the 
meat  and  baked  the  bread,  when  there  was  any  to 
cook  or  to  bake.  Here  they  lived  and  reared  their 
family,  and  found  life  sweet.  Their  unworthy  de- 
scendant, yielding  to  the  inherited  love  of  the  soil, 
flees  the  city  and  its  artificial  ways,  and  gets  a  few 
acres  in  the  country,  where  he  proposes  to  engage  in 
the  pursuit  supposed  to  be  free  to  every  American 
citizen  —  the  pursuit  of  happiness.  The  humble  old 
farm-house  is  discarded,  and  a  smart,  modern  coun- 
try-house put  up.  Walks  and  roads  are  made  and 
graveled ;  trees  and  hedges  are  planted ;  the  rustic  old 
barn  is  rehabilitated;  and,  after  it  is  all  fixed,  the 


250  PHASES   OF  FARM   LIFE. 

uneasy  proprietor  stands  off  and  looks,  and  calculates 
by  how  much  he  has  missed  the  picturesque,  at  which 
he  aimed.  Our  new  houses  undoubtedly  have  greater 
comforts  and  conveniences  than  the  old,  and  if  we 
could  keep  our  pride  and  vanity  in  abeyance  and  for- 
get that  all  the  world  is  looking  on,  they  might  have 
beauty  also. 

The  man  that  forgets  himself,  he  is  the  man  we 
like,  and  the  dwelling  that  forgets  itself  in  its  purpose 
to  shelter  and  protect  its  inmates  and  make  them  feel 
at  home  in  it  is  the  dwelling  that  fills  the  eye.  When 
you  see  one  of  the  great  cathedrals,  you  know  that  it 
was  not  pride  that  animated  these  builders,  but  fear 
and  worship ;  but  when  you  see  the  house  of  the  rich 
farmer  or  of  the  millionnaire  from  the  city,  you  see 
the  pride  of  money  and  the  insolence  of  social  power. 

Machinery,  I  say,  has  taken  away  some  of  the  pic- 
turesque features  of  farm  life.  How  much  soever  we 
may  admire  machinery  and  the  faculty  of  mechanical 
invention,  there  is  no  machine  like  a  man ;  and  the  > 
work  done  directly  by  his  hands,  the  things  made  or  * 
fashioned  by  them,  have  a  virtue  and  a  quality  that 
cannot  be  imparted  by  machinery.  The  line  of  mow- 
ers in  the  meadows,  with  the  straight  swaths  behind 
them,  are  more  picturesque  than  the  "  Clipper  "  or 
"Buckeye"  mower,  with  its  team  and  driver.  So 
are  the  flails  of  the  threshers,  chasing  each  other 
through  the  air,  more  pleasing  to  the  eye  and  the  ear 
than  the  machine,  with  its  uproar,  its  choking  clouds 
of  dust,  and  its  general  hurly-burly. 


PHASES  OF  FARM  LIFE.  251 

Sometimes  the  threshing  was  done  in  the  open  air, 
upon  a  broad  rock,  or  a  smooth,  dry  plat  of  green- 
sward, and  it  is  occasionally  done  there  yet,  especially 
the  threshing  of  the  buckwheat  crop,  by  a  farmer  who 
has  not  a  good  barn  floor,  or  who  cannot  afford  to 
hire  the  machine.  The  flail  makes  a  louder  thud  in 
the  fields  than  you  would  imagine  ;  and  in  the  splen- 
did October  weather  it  is  a  pleasing  spectacle  to  be- 
hold the  gathering  of  the  ruddy  crop  and  three  or 
four  lithe  figures  beating  out  the  grain  with  their 
flails  in  some  sheltered  nook,  or  some  grassy  lane 
lined  with  cedars.  When  there  are  three  flails  beating 
together  it  makes  lively  music ;  and  when  there  are 
four  they  follow  each  other  so  fast  that  it  is  a  contin- 
uous roll  of  sound,  and  it  requires  a  very  steady 
stroke  not  to  hit  or  get  hit  by  the  others.  There  is 
just  room  and  time  to  get  your  blow  in,  and  that  is 
all.  When  one  flail  is  upon  the  straw,  another  has 
just  left  it,  another  is  half-way  down,  and  the  fourth 
is  high  and  straight  in  the  air.  It  is  like  a  swiftly  J 
revolving  wheel  that  delivers  four  blows  at  each  rev-i 
olution.  Threshing,  like  mowing,  goes  much  easier 
in  company  than  when  alone  ;  yet  many  a  farmer  or 
laborer  spends  nearly  all  the  late  fall  and  winter  days 
shut  in  the  barn,  pounding  doggedly  upon  the  endless 
sheaves  of  oats  and  rye. 

When  the  farmers  made  "  bees,"  as  they  did  a 
generation  or  two  ago  much  more  than  they  do  now, 
a  picturesque  element  was  added.     There  was  the    p  . . 
stone  bee,  the  husking  bee,  the  "  raising,"  the  "  mov- 


252  PHASES   OF  FARM  LIFE. 

ing,"  etc.  When  the  carpenters  had  got  the  timbers 
of  the  house  or  barn  ready,  and  the  foundation  was 
prepared,  then  the  neighbors  for  miles  about  were  in- 
vited to  come  to  the  "raisin'."  The  afternoon  was 
the  time  chosen.  The  forenoon  was  occupied  by  the 
carpenter  and  farm  hands,  in  putting  the  sills  and 
"sleepers"  in  place  ("sleepers,"  what  a  good  name 
for  tEose  rude  hewn  timbers  that  lie  under  the  floor 
in  the  darkness  and  silence  !).  When  the  hands  ar-k^f 
rived  the  great  beams  and  posts  and  joists  and  braces J 
were  carried  to  their  place  on  the  platform,  and  the 
first  "  bent,"  as  it  was  called,  was  put  together  and 
pinned  by  oak  pins  that  the  boys  brought.  Then  pike 
poles  are  distributed,  the  men,  fifteen  or  twenty  of 
them,  arranged  in  a  line  abreast  of  the  bent ;  the  boss 
carpenter  steadies  and  guides  the  corner  post  and 
gives  the  word  of  command,  "  Take  holt,  boys  ! " 
"Now,  set  her  up!"  "Up  with  her!"  "Up  she 
goes ! "  When  it  gets  shoulder  high  it  becomes 
heavy,  and  there  is  a  pause.  The  pikes  are  brought 
into  requisition,  every  man  gets  a  good  hold  and 
braces  himself,  and  waits  for  the  words,  "  All  to- 
gether now  ;  "  shouts  the  captain,  "  Heave  her  up  !  " 
"He-o-he!"  (heave-all,  — heave),  "he-o-he,"  at  the 
top  of  his  voice,  every  man  doing  his  best.  Slowly 
the  great  timbers  go  up ;  louder  grows  the  word  of 
command,  till  the  bent  is  up.  Then  it  is  plumbed  and 
stay-lathed,  and  another  is  put  together  and  raised  in 
the  same  way,  till  they  are  all  up.  Then  comes  the 
putting  on  the  great  plates  —  timbers  that  run  length- 


PHASES   OF   FARM  LIFE.  253 

wise  of  the  building  and  match  the  sills  below.  Then, 
if  there  is  time,  the  putting  up  of  the  rafters.  In 
every  neighborhood  there  was  always  some  man  who 
was  especially  useful  at  "  raisin's."  He  was  bold  and 
strong  and  quick.  He  helped  guide  and  superintend 
the  work.  He  was  the  first  one  up  on  the  bent,  catch- 
ing a  pin  or  a  brace  and  putting  it  in  place.  He 
walked  the  lofty  and  perilous  plate,  with  the  great 
beetle  in  hand ;  put  the  pins  in  the  holes,  and  swing- 
ing the  heavy  instrument  through  the  air,  drove  the 
pins  home.  He  was  as  much  at  home  up  there  as  a 
squirrel. 

Now  that  balloon  frames  are  mainly  used  for 
houses,  and  lighter  sawed  timbers  for  barns,  the  old- 
fashioned  raising  is  rarely  witnessed. 

Then  the  moving  was  an  event,  too.  A  farmer  had 
a  barn  to  move,  or  wanted  to  build  a  new  house  on 
the  site  of  the  old  one,  and  the  latter  must  be  drawn 
to  one  side.  Now  this  work  is  done  with  pulleys  and 
rollers  by  a  few  men  and  a  horse ;  then  the  building 
was  drawn  by  sheer  bovine  strength.  Every  man 
that  had  a  yoke  of  cattle  in  the  country  round  about 
was  invited  to  assist.  The  barn  or  house  was  pried 
up  and  great  runners,  cut  in  the  woods,  placed  under 
it,  and  under  the  runners  were  placed  skids.  To 
these  runners  it  was  securely  chained  and  pinned  ; 
then  the  cattle  —  stags,  steers,  and  oxen,  in  two  long 
lines,  one  at  each  runner  —  were  hitched  fast,  and 
while  men  and  boys  aided  with  great  levers,  the  word 
to  go  was  given.  Slowly  the  two  lines  of  bulky  cattle 


*l 
0 


254  PHASES  OF  FARM  LIFE. 

straightened  and  settled  into  their  bows  ;  the  big 
chains  that  wrapped  the  runners  tightened,  a  dozen  or 
more  "  gads  "  were  flourished,  a  dozen  or  more  lusty 
throats  urged  their  teams  at  the  top  of  their  voices, 
when  there  was  a  creak  or  a  groan  as  the  building 
stirred.  Then  the  drivers  redoubled  their  efforts  ; 
there  was  a  perfect  Babel  of  discordant  sounds  ;  the 
oxen  bent  to  the  work,  their  eyes  bulged,  their  nostrils 
distended  ;  the  lookers-on  cheered,  and  away  went  the 
old  house  or  barn  as  nimbly  as  a  boy  on  a  hand-sled. 
Not  always,  however  ;  sometimes  the  chains  would 
break,  or  one  runner  strike  a  rock,  or  bury  itself  in 
the  earth.  There  were  generally  enough  mishaps  or 
delays  to  make  it  interesting. 

In  the  section  of  the  State  of  which  I  write,  flax 
used  to  be  grown,  and  cloth  for  shirts  and  trowsers, 

ui*W  and  towels  and  sheets,  etc.,  woven  from  it.     It  was 

no  laughing  matter  for  the  farm-boy  to  break  in  his 
shirt  or  trowsers,  those  days.  The  hair  shirts  in 
which  the  old  monks  used  to  mortify  the  flesh  could 
not  have  been  much  before  them  in  this  mortifying 
particular.  But  after  the  bits  of  shives  and  sticks 

-^C^1  ^'  were  subdued  and  the  knots  humbled  by  use  and  the 
wash-board,  they  were  good  garments.  If  you  lost 
your  hold  in  a  tree  and  your  shirt  caught  on  a  knot 
or  limb,  it  would  save  you. 

But  when  has  any  one  seen  a  crackle,  or  a  swing- 
ling-knife,  or  a  hetchel,  or  a  distaff,  and  where  can 
one  get  some  tow  for  strings  or  for  gun-wadding,  or 
some  swingling-tow  for  a  bonfire  ?  The  quill-wheel, 


PHASES   OF   FARM   LIFE.  255 

and  the  spinning-wheel,  and  the  loom,  are  heard  no 
more  among  us.  The  last  I  knew  of  a  certain  hetchel 
it  was  nailed  up  behind  the  old  sheep  that  did  the 
churning,  and  when  he  was  disposed  to  shirk  or  hang 
back  and  stop  the  machine,  it  was  always  ready  to 
spur  him  up  in  no  uncertain  manner.  The  old  loom 
became  a  hen  -  roost  in  an  out  -  building ;  and  the 
crackle  upon  which  the  flax  was  broken,  where,  oh, 
where  is  it  ?  t 

When  the  produce  of  the  farm  was  taken  a  long 
distance  to  market  —  that  was  an  event  too.  The 
carrying  away  of  the  butter  in  the  fall,  for  instance, 
to  the  river,  a  journey  that  occupied  both  ways  four 
days.  Then  the  family  marketing  was  done  in  a  few 
groceries.  Some  cloth,  new  caps  and  boots  for  the 
boys,  and  a  dress,  or  a  shawl,  or  a  cloak  for  the  girls 
were  brought  back,  besides  news  and  adventure,  and 
strange  tidings  of  the  distant  world.  The  farmer  was 
days  in  getting  ready  to  start ;  food  was  prepared  and 
put  in  a  box  to  stand  him  on  the  journey,  so  as  to 
lessen  the  hotel  expenses,  and  oats  put  up  for  the 
horses.  The  butter  was  loaded  up  over  night,  and  in 
the  cold  November  morning,  long  before  it  was  light, 
he  was  up  and  off.  I  seem  to  hear  the  wagon  yet,  its 
slow  rattle  over  the  frozen  ground  diminishing  in  the 
distance.  On  the  fourth  day  toward  night  all  grew 
expectant  of  his  return,  but  it  was  usually  dark  before 
his  wagon  was  heard  coming  down  the  hill,  or  his  voice 
from  before  the  door  summoning  a  light.  When  the 
boys  got  big  enough,  one  after  the  other  accompanied 


256  PHASES   OF  FARM  LIFE. 

him  each  year,  until  all  had  made  the  famous  journey 
and  seen  the  great  river  and  the  steamboats,  and  the 
thousand  and  one  marvels  of  the  far-away  town. 
When  it  came  my  turn  to  go,  I  was  in  a  great  state 
of  excitement  for  a  week  beforehand,  for  fear  my 
clothes  would  not  be  ready,  or  else  that  it  would  be 
too  cold,  or  else  that  the  world  would  come  to  an  end 
before  the  time  fixed  for  starting.  The  day  previous 
I  roamed  the  woods  in  quest  of  game  to  supply  my  bill 
of  fare  on  the  way,  and  was  lucky  enough  to  shoot  a 
partridge  and  an  owl,  though  the  latter  I  did  not  take. 
Perched  high  on  a  "  spring-board,"  I  made  the  jour- 
ney and  saw  more  sights  and  wonders  than  I  have 
ever  seen  on  a  journey  since,  or  ever  expect  to  again. 
But  now  all  this  is  changed.  The  railroad  has 
found  its  way  through  or  near  every  settlement,  and 
marvels  and  wonders  are  cheap.  Still,  the  essential 
charm  of  the  farm  remains  and  always  will  remain ; 
the  care  of  crops,  and  of  cattle,  and  of  orchards,  bees, 
and  fowls  ;  the  clearing  and  improving  of  the  ground ; 
the  building  of  barns  and  houses  ;  the  direct  contact 
with  the  soil,  and  with  the  elements ;  the  watching  of 
the  clouds  and  of  the  weather ;  the  privacies  with 
nature,  with  bird,  beast,  and  plant ;  and  the  close  ac- 

&x*  \  quaintance  with  the  heart  and  virtue  of  the  world. 
The  farmer  should  be  the  true  naturalist ;  the  book 
in  which  it  is  all  written  is  open  before  him  night 
and  day,  and  how  sweet  and  wholesome  all  his  knowl- 
edge is ! 

U  The  predominant  feature  of  farm  life  in  New  York, 


PHASES  OF  FARM  LIFE.  257 

as  in  other  States,  is  always  given  by  some  local  in-  ^ 
dustry  of  one  kind  or  another.     In  many  of  the  high 
cold  counties  in  the  eastern  centre  of  the  State,  this 
ruling  industry  is  hop-growing ;  in  the  western  it  is 
grain  and  fruit-growing ;  in  sections  along  the  Hud- 
son, it  is  small -fruit  growing,  as  berries,  currants, 
grapes;  in  other  counties  it  is  milk  and  butter;  in 
others  quarrying  flagging-stone.      I  recently  visited  a 
section  of  Ulster  County,  where  everybody  seemed  get-  ^ 
ting  out  hoop-poles  and  making  hoops.    The  only  talk   \ 
was  of  hoops,  hoops  !    Every  team  that  went  by  had  a^> 
load  or  was  going  for  a  load  of  hoops.    The  principal-;, 
fuel  was  hoop-shavings  or  discarded  hoop-poles.     No 
man  had  any  money  until  he  sold  his  hoops.     When 
a  farmer  went  to  town  to  get  some  grains,  or  a  pair 
of  boots,  or  a  dress  for  his  wife,  he  took  a  load  of 
hoops.     People  stole  hoops  and  poached  for  hoops, 
and  bought,  and  sold,  and  speculated  in  hoops.     If 
there  was  a  corner  it  was  in  hoops ;  big  hoops,  little 
hoops,  hoops  for  kegs,  and  firkins,  and  barrels,  and 
hogsheads,  and  pipes;   hickory  hoops,  birch  hoops, 
ash  hoops,  chestnut  hoops,  hoops  enough  to  go  around 
the  world.      Another  place  it  was  shingle,  shingle ; 
everybody  was  shaving  hemlock  shingle. 

In  most  of  the  eastern  counties  of  the  State  the  in- 
terest and  profit  of  the  farm  revolve  about  the  cow. 
The  dairy  is  the  one  great  matter,  —  for  milk,  when 
milk  can  be  shipped  to  the  New  York  market,  and  for 
butter  when  it  cannot.  Great  barns  and  stables  and 
milking-sheds,  and  immense  meadows  and  cattle  on  a 


258  PHASES   OF   FARM   LIFE. 

thousand  hills,  are  the  prominent  agricultural  features 
of  these  sections  of  the  country.  Good  grass  and 
good  water  are  the  two  indispensables  to  successful 
dairying.  And  the  two  generally  go  together.  Where 
there  are  plenty  of  copious  cold  springs  there  is  no 
dearth  of  grass.  When  the  cattle  are  compelled  to 
browse  upon  weeds  and  various  wild  growths,  the 
milk  and  butter  will  betray  it  in  the  flavor.  Tender, 
juicy  grass,  the  ruddy  blossoming  clover,  or  the  fra- 
grant, well-cured  hay,  make  the  delicious  milk  and 
the  sweet  butter.  Then  there  is  a  charm  about  a 
natural  pastoral  country  that  belongs  to  no  other. 
Go  through  Orange  County  in  May  and  see  the  vivid 
emerald  of  the  smooth  fields  and  hills.  It  is  a  new 
experience  of  the  beauty  and  effectiveness  of  simple 
grass.  And  this  grass  has  rare  virtues,  too,  and  im- 
parts a  flavor  to  the  milk  and  butter  that  has  made 
them  famous. 

Along  all  the  sources  of  the  Delaware  the  land 
flows  with  milk,  if  not  with  honey.  The  grass  is  ex- 
»  cellent,  except  in  times  of  protracted  drought,  and 
then  the  browsings  in  the  beech  and  birch  woods  are 
good  substitute.  Butter  is  the  staple  product.  Every 
housewife  is  or  wants  to  be  a  famous  butter  maker, 
and  Delaware  County  butter  rivals  Orange  in  market. 
It  is  a  high,  cool  grazing  country.  The  farms  lie 
tilted  up  against  the  sides  of  the  mountain  or  lapping 
over  the  hills,  striped  or  checked  with  stone  wall,  and 
presenting  to  the  eye  long  stretches  of  pasture  and 
meadow  land,  alternating  with  ploughed  fields  and 


PHASES   OF   FARM   LIFE.  259 

patches  of  waving  grain.  Few  of  their  features  are 
picturesque ;  they  are  bare,  broad,  and  simple.  The 
farm-house  gets  itself  a  coat  of  white  paint,  and  green 
blinds  to  the  windows,  and  the  barn  and  wagon-house 
a  coat  of  red  paint  with  white  trimmings,  as  soon  as 
possible.  A  penstock  flows  by  the  doorway,  rows  of 
tin  pans  sun  themselves  in  the  yard,  and  the  great 
wheel  of  the  churning  machine  flanks  the  milk-house, 
or  rattles  behind  it.  The  winters  are  severe,  the 
snow  deep.  The  principal  fuel  is  still  wood  —  beech, 
birch,  and  maple.  It  is  hauled  off  the  mountain,  in 
great  logs  when  the  first  November  or  December 
snows  come,  and  cut  up  and  piled  in  the  wood-houses 
and  under  a  shed.  Here  the  axe  still  rules  the  winter, 
and  it  may  be  heard  all  day  and  every  day  upon  the 
wood-pile,  or  echoing  though  the  frost-bound  wood, 
the  coat  of  the  chopper  hanging  to  a  limb  and  his 
white  chips  strewing  the  snow. 

Many  cattle  need  much  hay ;  hence  in  dairy  sec- 
tions haying  is  the  period  of  "  storm  and  stress  "  in 
the  farmer's  year.  To  get  the  hay  in,  in  good  condi- 
tion, and  before  the  grass  gets  too  ripe,  is  a  great 
matter.  All  the  energies  and  resources  of  the  farm 
are  bent  to  this  purpose.  It  is  a  thirty  or  forty  day 
war,  in  which  the  farmer  and  his  "  hands  "  are  pitted 
against  the  heat  and  the  rain,  and  the  legions  of 
timothy  and  clover.  Everything  about  it  has  the 
urge,  the  hurry,  the  excitement  of  a  battle.  Outside 
help  is  procured  ;  men  flock  in  from  adjoining  coun- 
ties, where  the  ruling  industry  is  something  else,  and 


260  PHASES  OF  FARM  LIFE. 

is  less  imperative ;  coopers,  blacksmiths,  and  laborers 
of  various  kinds  drop  their  tools,  and  take  down  their 
scythes  and  go  in  quest  of  a  job  in  haying.  Every 
man  is  expected  to  pitch  his  endeavors  in  a  little 
higher  key  than  at  any  other  kind  of  work.  The 
wages  are  extra,  and  the  work  must  correspond.  The 
men  are  in  the  meadow  by  half-past  four,  or  five,  in 
the  morning  and  mow  an  hour  or  two  before  break- 
fast. A  good  mower  is  proud  of  his  skill.  He  does 
not  "  lop  in,"  and  his  "  pointing  out "  is  perfect,  and 
you  can  hardly  see  the  ribs  of  his  swath.  He  stands 
up  to  his  grass  and  strikes  level  and  sure.  He  will 
turn  a  double  down  through  the  stoutest  grass,  and 
when  the  hay  is  raked  away  you  will  not  find  a  spear 
left  standing.  The  Americans  are  —  or  were  —  the 
best  mowers.  A  foreigner  could  never  quite  give  the 
masterly  touch.  The  hayfield  has  its  code.  One 
man  must  not  take  another's  swath  unless  he  expects 
to  be  crowded.  Each  expects  to  take  his  turn  lead- 
ing the  band.  The  scythe  may  be  so  whet  as  to  ring 
out  a  saucy  challenge  to  the  rest.  It  is  not  good 
manners  to  mow  up  too  close  to  your  neighbor,  unless 
you  are  trying  to  keep  out  of  the  way  of  the  man  be- 
hind you.  Many  a  race  has  been  brought  on  by  some 
one  being  a  little  indiscreet  in  this  respect.  Two  men 
may  mow  all  day  together  under  the  impression  that 
each  is  trying  to  put  the  other  through.  The  one  that 
leads  strikes  out  briskly,  and  the  other,  not  to  be  out- 
done, follows  close.  Thus  the  blood  of  each  is  soon 
up ;  a  little  heat  begets  more  heat,  and  it  is  fairly  a 


PHASES  OF  FARM  LIFE.  261 

race  before  long.  It  is  a  great  ignominy  to  be  mowed 
out  of  your  swath.  Hay  gathering  is  clean,  manly 
work  all  through.  Young  fellows  work  in  haying1 
who  do  not  do  another  stroke  on  the  farm  the  whole 
year.  It  is  a  gymnasium  in  the  meadows  and  under 
the  summer  sky.  How  full  of  pictures,  too !  —  the 
smooth  slopes  dotted  with  cocks  with  lengthening 
shadows  ;  the  great,  broad-backed,  soft-cheeked  loads, 
moving  along  the  lanes  and  brushing  under  the  trees ; 
the  unfinished  stack  with  forkfuls  of  hay  being  handed 
up  its  sides  to  the  builder,  and  when  finished  the 
shape  of  a  great  pear,  with  a  pole  in  the  top  for  the 
stem.  May  be  in  the  fall  and  winter  the  calves  and 
yearlings  will  hover  around  it  and  gnaw  its  base  until 
it  overhangs  them  and  shelters  them  from  the  storm. 
Or  the  farmer  will  "fodder"  his  cows  there,  —  one 
of  the  most  picturesque  scenes  to  be  witnessed  on  the 
farm,  —  twenty  or  thirty  or  forty  milchers  filing  along 
toward  the  stack  in  the  field,  or  clustered  about  it, 
waiting  the  promised  bite.  In  great,  green  flakes  the 
hay  is  rolled  off,  and  distributed  about  in  small  heaps 
upon  the  unspotted  snow.  After  the  cattle  have  eaten, 
the  birds  —  snow-buntings  and  red-polls  —  come  and 
pick  up  the  crumbs,  the  seeds  of  the  grasses  and 
weeds.  At  night  the  fox  and  the  owl  come  for  mice. 
What  a  beautiful  path  the  cows  make  through  the 
snow  to  the  stack  or  to  the  spring  under  the  hill !  — 
always  more  or  less  wayward,  but  broad  and  firm, 
and  carved  and  indented  by  a  multitude  of  rounded 
hoofs. 


PHASES  OF  FARM  LIFE. 

In  fact,  the  cow  is  the  true  pathfinder  and  path- 
maker.  She  has  the  leisurely,  deliberate  movement 
that  insures  an  easy  and  a  safe  way.  Follow  her 
trail  through  the  woods  and  you  have  the  best  if  not 
the  shortest  course.  How  she  beats  down  the  brush 
and  briers  and  wears  away  even  the  roots  of  the 
trees !  A  herd  of  cows  left  to  themselves  fall  natu- 
rally into  single  file,  and  a  hundred  or  more  hoofs 
are  not  long  in  smoothing  and  compacting  almost  any 
surface. 

Indeed,  all  the  ways  and  doings  of  cattle  are  pleas- 
ant to  look  upon,  whether  grazing  in  the  pasture,  or 
browsing  in  the  woods,  or  ruminating  under  the  trees, 
or  feeding  in  the  stall,  or  reposing  upon  the  knolls. 
There  is  virtue  in  the  cow ;  she  is  full  of  goodness ; 
a  wholesome  odor  exhales  from  her ;  the  whole  land- 
scape looks  out  of  her  soft  eyes ;  the  quality  and  the 
aroma  of  miles  of  meadow  and  pasture  lands  are  in 
her  presence  and  products.  I  had  rather  have  the 
care  of  cattle  than  be  the  keeper  of  the  great  seal  of 
the  nation.  Where  the  cow  is,  there  is  Arcadia ;  so 
far  as  her  influence  prevails  there  is  contentment, 
humility,  and  sweet,  homely  life. 

Blessed  is  he  whose  youth  was  passed  upon  the  jj  i\' 
farm,  and  if  it  was  a  dairy  farm  his  memories  will  be  (I   > 
all  the  more  fragrant.     The  driving  of  the  cows  to 
and  from  the  pasture,  every  day  and  every  season  for 
years  —  how  much  of  summer  and  of  nature  he  got 
into  him  on  these  journeys !     What  rambles  and  ex- 
cursions did  this  errand  furnish  the  excuse  for !    The 


PHASES   OF  FARM  LIFE.  263 

birds  and  birds'  nests,  the  berries,  the  squirrels,  the 
woodchucks,  the  beech  woods  with  their  treasures 
into  which  the  cows  loved  so  to  wander  and  to  browse, 
the  fragrant  wintergreens  and  a  hundred  nameless 
adventures,  all  strung  upon  that  brief  journey  of  half 
a  mile  to  and  from  the  remote  pastures.  Sometimes* 
one  cow  or  two  will  be  missing  when  the  herd  is 
brought  home  at  night ;  then  to  hunt  them  up  is  an- 
other adventure.  My  grandfather  went  out  one  night 
to  look  up  an  absentee  from  the  yard,  when  he  heard 
something  in  the  brush,  and  out  stepped  a  bear  into 
the  path  before  him. 

Every  Sunday  morning  the  cows  were  salted.  The 
farm-boy  would  take  a  pail  with  three  or  four  quarts 
of  coarse  salt  and,  followed  by  the  eager  herd,  go 
to  the  field  and  deposit  the  salt  in  handfuls  upon 
smooth  stones  and  rocks  and  upon  clean  places  on  the 
turf.  If  you  want  to  know  how  good  salt  is,  see  a 
cow  eat  it.  She  gives  the  true  saline  smack.  How 
she  dwells  upon  it  and  gnaws  the  sward  and  licks  the 
stones  where  it  has  been  deposited !  The  cow  is  the 
most  delightful  feeder  among  animals.  It  makes  one's 
mouth  water  to  see  her  eat  pumpkins,  and  to  see  her 
at  a  pile  of  apples  is  distracting.  How  she  sweeps 
off  the  delectable  grass !  The  sound  of  her  grazing 
is  appetizing ;  the  grass  betrays  all  its  sweetness  and 
succulency  in  parting  under  her  sickle. 

The  region  of  which  I  write  abounds  in  sheep  also. 
Sheep  love  high,  cool,  breezy  lands.  Their  range  is 
generally  much  above  that  of  cattle.  Their  sharp 


264  PHASES  OF  FARM  LIFE. 

noses  will  find  picking  where  a  cow  would  fare  poorly 
indeed.  Hence  most  farmers  utilize  their  high,  wild, 
and  mountain  lands  by  keeping  a  small  flock  of  sheep. 
But  they  are  the  outlaws  of  the  farm  and  are  seldom 
within  bounds.  They  make  many  lively  expeditions 
for  the  farm-boy  —  driving  them  out  of  mischief, 
hunting  them  up  in  the  mountains,  or  salting  them  on 
the  breezy  hills.  Then  there  is  the  annual  sheep- 
washing,  when  on  a  warm  day  in  May  or  early  June 
the  whole  herd  is  driven  a  mile  or  more  to  a  suit- 
able pool  in  the  creek  and  one  by  one  doused  and 
washed  and  rinsed  in  the  water.  We  used  to  wash 
below  an  old  "  grist  mill,"  and  it  was  a  pleasing 
spectacle  —  the  mill,  the  dam,  the  overhanging  rocks 
and  trees,  the  round,  deep  pool,  and  the  huddled  and 
frightened  sheep. 

One  of  the  features  of  farm-life  peculiar  to  this 
country,  and  one  of  the  most  picturesque  of  them  all, 
is  sugar-making  in  the  maple  woods  in  spring.  This 
is  the  first  work  of  the  season,  and  to  the  boys  is  more 
play  than  work.  In  the  Old  World,  and  in  more 
simple  and  imaginative  times,  how  such  an  occupation 
as  this  would  have  got  into  literature,  and  how  many 
legends  and  associations  would  have  clustered  around 
it.  It  is  woodsy,  and  savors  of  the  trees  ;  it  is  an  en- 
campment among  the  maples.  Before  the  bud  swells, 
before  the  grass  springs,  before  the  plough  is  started, 
comes  the  sugar  harvest.  It  is  the  sequel  of  the  bit- 
ter frost ;  a  sap-run  is  the  sweet  good-by  of  winter. 
It  denotes  a  certain  equipoise  of  the  season ;  the  heat 


PHASES  OF  FARM  LIFE.  265 

of  the  day  fully  balances  the  frost  of  the  night.  In 
New  York  and  New  England  the  time  of  the  sap 
hovers  about  the  vernal  equinox,  beginning  a  week  or 
ten  days  before,  and  continuing  a  week  or  ten  days 
after.  As  the  days  and  nights  get  equal,  the  heat  and 
cold  get  equal,  and  the  sap  mounts.  A  day  that  brings 
the  bees  out  of  the  hive  will  bring  the  sap  out  of  the 
maple-tree.  It  is  the  fruit  of  the  equal  marriage  of 
the  sun  and  frost.  When  the  frost  is  all  out  of  the 
ground,  and  all  the  snow  gone  from  its  surface,  the 
flow  stops.  The  thermometer  must  not  rise  above 
38°  or  40°  by  day,  or  sink  below  24°  or  25°  at  night, 
with  wind  in  the  northwest ;  a  relaxing  south  wind, 
and  the  run  is  over  for  the  present.  Sugar  weather 
is  crisp  weather.  How  the  tin  buckets  glisten  in  the 
gray  woods  ;  how  the  robins  laugh ;  how  the  nut- 
hatches call ;  how  lightly  the  thin  blue  smoke  rises 
among  the  trees.  The  squirrels  are  out  of  their  dens ; 
the  migrating  water-fowls  are  streaming  northward ; 
the  sheep  and  cattle  look  wistfully  toward  the  bare 
fields ;  the  tide  of  the  season,  in  fact,  is  just  beginning 
to  rise. 

Sap-letting  does  not  seem  to  be  an  exhaustive  pro- 
cess to  the  trees,  as  the  trees  of  a  sugar-bush  appear 
to  be  as  thrifty  and  as  long-lived  as  other  trees. 
They  come  to  have  a  maternal,  large-waisted  look, 
from  the  wounds  of  the  axe  or  the  auger,  and  that  is 
about  all. 

In  my  sugar-making  days  the  sap  was  carried  to 
the  boiling-place  in  pails  by  the  aid  of  a  neck-yoke 


-. 


266  PHASES   OF  FARM  LIFE. 

and  stored  in  hogsheads,  and  boiled  or  evaporated  in 
immense  kettles  or  caldrons  set  in  huge  stone  arches ; 
now  the  hogshead  goes  to  the  trees  hauled  upon  a 
sled  by  a  team,  and  the  sap  is  evaporated  in  broad, 
shallow,  sheet-iron  pans  —  a  great  saving  of  fuel  and 
of  labor. 

Many  a  farmer  sits  up  all  night  boiling  his  sap, 
when  the  run  has  been  an  extra  good  one,  and  a 
lonely  vigil  he  has  of  it  amid  the  silent  trees,  and  be- 
side his  wild  hearth.  If  he  has  a  sap-house,  as  is  now 
so  common,  he  may  make  himself  fairly  comfortable, 
and  if  a  companion,  he  may  have  a  good  time  or  a 
glorious  wake. 

Maple-sugar  in  its  perfection  is  rarely  seen,  per- 
haps never  seen  in  the  market.  When  made  in  large 
quantities  and  indifferently,  it  is  dark  and  coarse ;  but 
when  made  in  small  quantities  —  that  is,  quickly  from 
the  first  run  of  sap  and  properly  treated  —  it  has  a 
wild  delicacy  of  flavor  that  no  other  sweet  can  match. 
What  you  smell  in  freshly  cut  maple-wood,  or  taste 
in  the  blossom  of  the  tree,  is  in  it.  It  is  then,  indeed, 
the  distilled  essence  of  the  tree.  Made  into  syrup,  it 
is  white  and  clear  as  clover-honey,  and  crystallized 
into  sugar,  it  is  pure  as  the  wax.  The  way  to  attain 
this  result  is  to  evaporate  the  sap  under  cover  in  an 
enameled  kettle ;  when  reduced  about  twelve  times, 
allow  it  to  settle  half  a  day  or  more ;  then  clarify  with 
milk  or  the  white  of  an  egg.  The  product  is  virgin 
syrup,  or  sugar  worthy  the  table  of  the  gods. 

Perhaps  the  most  heavy  and  laborious  work  of  the 


PHASES  OF  FARM  LIFE.  267 

farm  in  the  section  of  the  State  of  which  I  write  is 
fence-building.  But  it  is  not  unproductive  labor,  as 
in  the  South  or  West,  for  the  fence  is  of  stone,  and 
the  capacity  of  the  soil  for  grass  or  grain  is,  of  course, 
increased  by  its  construction.  It  is  killing  two  birds 
with  one  stone :  a  fence  is  had,  the  best  in  the  world, 
while  the  available  area  of  the  field  is  enlarged.  In 
fact,  if  there  are  ever  sermons  in  stones,  it  is  when 
they  are  built  into  a  stone-wall,  —  turning  your  hin- 
drances into  helps,  shielding  your  crops  behind  the 
obstacles  to  your  husbandry,  making  the  enemies  of 
the  plough  stand  guard  over  its  products.  This  is  the 
kind  of  farming  worth  imitating.  A  stone-wall  with 
a  good  rock  bottom  will  stand  as  long  as  a  man  lasts. 
Its  only  enemy  is  the  frost,  and  it  works  so  gently 
that  it  is  not  till  after  many  years  that  its  effect  is 
perceptible.  An  old  farmer  will  walk  with  you 
through  his  fields  and  say,  "  This  wall  I  built  at  such 
and  such  a  time,  or  the  first  year  I  came  on  the  farm, 
or  when  I  owned  such  and  such  a  span  of  horses," 
indicating  a  period  thirty,  forty,  or  fifty  years  back. 
"  This  other,  we  built  the  summer  so  and  so  worked 
for  me,"  and  he  relates  some  incident,  or  mishap,  or 
comical  adventures  that  the  memory  calls  up.  Every 
line  of  fence  has  a  history ;  the  mark  of  his  plough  or 
his  crow-bar  is  upon  the  stones  ;  the  sweat  of  his  early 
manhood  put  them  in  place ;  in  fact,  the  long  black 
line  covered  with  lichens  and  in  places  tottering  to 
the  fall  revives  long-gone  scenes  and  events  in  the 
life  of  the  farm. 


268  PHASES  OF  FARM  LIFE. 

The  time  for  fence  -  building  is  usually  between 
seed-time  and  harvest,  May  and  June ;  or  in  the  fall 
after  the  crops  are  gathered.  The  work  has  its  pic- 
turesque features,  —  the  prying  of  rocks  ;  supple 
forms  climbing  or  swinging  from  the  end  of  the  great 
levers,  or  the  blasting  of  the  rocks  with  powder ;  the 
hauling  of  them  into  position  with  oxen  or  horses,  or 
with  both ;  the  picking  of  the  stone  from  the  green- 
sward; the  bending,  athletic  form  of  the  wall  lay- 
ers ;  the  snug  new  fence  creeping  slowly  up  the  hill 
or  across  the  field,  absorbing  the  windrow  of  loose 
stones,  —  and  when  the  work  is  done  much  ground 
reclaimed  to  the  plough  and  the  grass,  and  a  strong 
barrier  erected. 

It  is  a  common  complaint  that  the  farm  and  farm 
life  are  not  appreciated  by  our  people.  We  long  for 
the  more  elegant  pursuits,  or  the  ways  and  fashions 
of  the  town.  But  the  farmer  has  the  most  sane  and 
natural  occupation,  and  ought  to  find  life  sweeter,  if 
less  highly  seasoned,  than  any  other.  He  alone, 
strictly  speaking,  has  a  home.  How  can  a  man  take 
root  and  thrive  without  land  ?  He  writes  his  history 
upon  his  field.  How  many  ties,  how  many  resources 
he  has ;  his  friendships  with  his  cattle,  his  team,  his 
dog,  his  trees,  the  satisfaction  in  his  growing  crops, 
in  his  improved  fields  ;  his  intimacy  with  nature,  with 
bird  and  beast,  and  with  the  quickening  elemental 
forces ;  his  cooperations  with  the  cloud,  the  sun,  the 
seasons,  heat,  wind,  rain,  frost.  Nothing  will  take 
the  various  social  distempers  which  the  city  and  arti- 


PHASES  OF   FARM  LIFE.  269 

ficial  life  breed  out  of  a  man  like  farming,  like  direct 
and  loving  contact  with  the  soil.  It  draws  out  the 
poison.  It  humbles  him,  teaches  him  patience  and 
reverence,  and  restores  the  proper  tone  to  his  system. 

Cling  to  the  farm,  make  much  of  it,  put  yourself 
into  it,  bestow  your  heart  and  your  brain  upon  it,  so 
that  it  shall  savor  of  you  and  radiate  your  virtue  after 
your  day's  work  is  done ! 

"  Be  thou  diligent  to  know  the  state  of  thy  flocks, 
and  look  well  to  thy  herds. 

"  For  riches  are  not  forever ;  and  doth  the  crown 
endure  to  every  generation  ? 

"  The  hay  appeareth,  and  the  tender  grass  showeth 
itself,  and  herbs  of  the  mountains  are  gathered. 

"  The  lambs  are  for  thy  clothing  and  the  goats  are 
the  price  of  the  field. 

"  And  thou  shalt  have  goat's  milk  enough  for  thy 
food,  for  the  food  of  thy  household,  and  for  the  main- 
tenance for  thy  maidens." 


ROOF-TREE. 


ROOF-TREE. 

ONE  of  the  greatest  pleasures  of  life  is  to  build  a 
house  for  one's  self.  There  is  a  peculiar  satisfaction 
even  in  planting  a  tree  from  which  you  hope  to  eat 
the  fruit  or  in  the  shade  of  which  you  hope  to  repose. 
But  how  much  greater  the  pleasure  in  planting  the 
roof -tree,  the  tree  that  bears  the  golden  apples  of 
home  and  hospitality,  and  under  the  protection  of 
which  you  hope  to  pass  the  remainder  of  your  days. 
My  grandmother  said  the  happiest  day  of  her  life  was 
when  she  found  herself  mistress  of  a  little  log  house 
in  the  woods.  Grandfather  and  she  had  built  it 
mainly  with  their  own  hands,  and  doubtless  with  as 
much  eagerness  and  solicitude  as  the  birds  build  their 
nests.  It  was  made  of  birch  and  maple  logs,  the  floor 
was  of  hewn  logs,  and  its  roof  of  black  ash  bark. 
But  it  was  home  and  fireside,  a  few  square  feet  of 
the  great  wild,  inclement,  inhospitable  out-of-doors 
subdued  and  set  about  by  four  walls  and  made  warm 
and  redolent  of  human  hearts.  I  notice  how  eager 
all  men  are  in  building  their  houses,  how  they  linger 
about  them  or  even  about  their  proposed  sites.  When 
the  cellar  is  being  dug  they  want  to  take  a  hand  in ; 
the  earth  evidently  looks  a  little  different,  a  little 
more  friendly  and  congenial,  than  other  earth.  When 


274  ROOF-TREE. 

the  foundation  walls  are  up  and  the  first  floor  rudely 
sketched  by  rough  timbers,  I  see  them  walking  pen- 
sively from  one  imaginary  room  to  another,  or  sitting 
long  and  long,  wrapped  in  sweet  reverie,  upon  the 
naked  joist.  It  is  a  favorite  pastime  to  go  there  of 
a  Sunday  afternoon  and  linger  fondly  about :  they 
take  their  friends  or  their  neighbors  and  climb  the 
skeleton  stairs  and  look  out  of  the  vacant  windows, 
and  pass  in  and  out  of  the  just  sketched  door-ways. 
How  long  the  house  is  a-finishing !  The  heart  moves 
in  long  before  the  workmen  move  out.  Will  the  mason 
and  the  painter  and  the  plumber  never  be  through  ? 

When  a  new  house  is  going  up  in  my  vicimty  I 
find  myself  walking  thitherward  nearly  every  day  to 
see  how  the  work  progresses.     What  pleasure  to  see 
the  structure  come  into  shape,  and  the  architect's  par* 
per  plans  take  form  and  substance  in  wood  and  stone  ! 
I  like  to  see  every  piece  fitted,  every  nail  driven.     I 
stand  about  till  I  am  in  the  way  of  the  carpenters,  or 
masons.    Another  new  roof  to  shelter  somebody  from 
the  storms,  another  four  walls  to  keep  the  great  cqsjT 
mic  out-of-doors  at  bay  ! 

Though  there  is  pleasure  in  building  our  house,  or 
in  seeing  our  neighbor  build,  yet  the  old  houses  look 
the  best.  Disguise  it  as  one  will,  the  new  house  is 
more  or  less  a  wound  upon  nature,  and  time  must 
elapse  for  the  wound  to  heal.  Then  unless  one  builds 
with  modesty  and  simplicity,  and  with  a  due  regard 
to  the  fitness  of  things,  his  house  will  always  be  a 
wound,  an  object  of  offense  upon  the  fair  face  of  the 


ROOF-TREE.  275 

landscape.  Indeed,  to  build  a  house  that  shall  not 
offend  the  wise  eye,  that  shall  not  put  Nature  and  all 
her  gentle  divinities  to  shame,  is  the  great  problem. 
In  such  matters,  not  to  displease  the  eye  is  to  please 
the  heart. 

Probably  the  most  that  is  to  be  aimed  at  in  do- 
mestic architecture  is  negative  beauty,  a  condition  of 
things  which  invites  or  suggests  beauty  to  those  who 
are  capable  of  the  sentiment,  because  a  house,  truly 
viewed,  is  but  a  setting,  a  background,  and  is  not  to 
be  pushed  to  the  front  and  made  much  of  for  its  own 
sake.  It  is  for  shelter,  for  comfort,  for  health  and 
hospitality,  to  eat  in  and  sleep  in,  to  be  born  in  and 
to  die  in,  and  it  is  to  accord  in  appearance  with 
homely  every-day  usages,  and  with  natural,  universal 
objects  and  scenes.  Indeed,  is  anything  but  negative 
beauty  to  be  aimed  at  in  the  interior  decorations  as 
well  ?  The  hangings  are  but  a  background  for  the 
pictures  and  are  to  give  tone  and  atmosphere  to  the 
rooms,  while  the  whole  interior  is  but  a  background 
for  the  human  form,  and  for  the  domestic  life  to  be 
lived  there. 

It  may  be  observed  that  what  we  call  beauty  of 
nature  is  mainly  negative  beauty ;  that  is,  the  mass, 
the  huge  rude  background,  made  up  of  rocks,  trees, 
hills,  mountains,  plains,  water,  etc.,  has  not  beauty  as 
a  positive  quality,  visible  to  all  eyes,  but  affords  the 
mind  the  conditions  of  beauty,  namely :  health, 
strength,  fitness,  etc.,  beauty  being  an  experience  of 
the  beholder.  Some  things,  on  the  other  hand,  as 


276  ROOF-TREE. 

flowers,  foliage,  brilliant  colors,  sunsets,  rainbows, 
water-falls,  may  be  said  to  be  beautiful  in  and  of 
themselves ;  but  how  wearisome  the  world  would  be 
without  the  vast  negative  background  upon  which 
these  things  figure,  and  which  provokes  and  stimu- 
lates the  mind  in  a  way  the  purely  fair  forms  do  not. 

How  we  are  drawn  by  that  which  retreats  and 
hides  itself,  or  gives  only  glimpses  and  half  views ! 
Hence  the  value  of  trees  as  a  veil  to  an  ugly  orna- 
mental house,  and  the  admirable  setting  they  form  to 
the  picturesque  habitation  I  am  contemplating.  But 
the  house  the  heart  builds,  whether  it  be  cottage  or 
villa,  can  stand  the  broad,  open  light  without  a  screen 
of  any  kind.  Its  neutral  gray  or  brown  tints,  its  wide 
projections  and  deep  shadows,  its  simple  strong  lines, 
its  coarse  open-air  quality,  its  ample  roof  or  roofs, 
blend  it  with  the  landscape  wherever  it  stands.  Such 
a  house  seems  to  retreat  into  itself,  and  invites  the 
eye  to  follow.  Its  interior  warmth  and  coziness  pen- 
etrate the  walls,  and  the  eye  gathers  suggestions  of 
them  at  every  point. 

We  can  miss  almost  anything  else  from  a  building 
rather  than  a  look  of  repose.  This  it  must  have. 
Give  it  a  look  of  repose,  and  all  else  shall  be  added. 
This  is  the  supreme  virtue  in  architecture.  Go  to  the 
city,  walk  up  and  down  the  principal  thoroughfares, 
and  see  what  an  effort  many  of  the  buildings  make  to 
stand  up !  What  columns  and  arches  they  put  forth 
where  no  columns  or  arches  are  needed !  There  is 
endless  variety  of  form  and  line,  great  activity  of 


ROOF-TREE.  277 

iron  and  stone,  when  the  eye  demands  simplicity  and 
repose.  No  broad  spaces,  no  neutral  ground.  The 
architect  in  his  search  for  variety  has  made  his  fa- 
9ade  bristle  with  meaningless  forms.  But  now  and 
then  the  eye  is  greeted  by  honest  simplicity  of  struc- 
ture. Look  at  that  massive  front  yonder,  built  of 
granite  blocks,  simply  one  stone  top  of  another  from 
the  ground  to  the  roof,  with  no  fuss  or  flutter  about 
the  openings  in  the  walls.  How  easy,  how  simple, 
and  what  a  look  of  dignity  and  repose  !  But  prob- 
ably the  next  time  we  come  this  way,  they  will  have 
put  hollow  metal  hoods  over  the  windows,  or  other- 
wise marred  the  ease  and  dignity  of  that  front. 

Doubtless  one  main  source  of  the  pleasure  we  take 
in  a  brick  or  stone  wall  over  one  of  wood  is  just  in 
this  element  of  simplicity  and  repose ;  the  structure 
is  visible ;  there  is  nothing  intricate  or  difficult  about 
it.  It  is  one  stone,  or  one  brick  top  of  another  all  the 
way  up ;  the  building  makes  no  effort  at  all  to  stand 
up,  but  does  so  in  the  most  natural  and  inevitable 
way  in  the  world.  In  a  wooden  building  the  anatomy 
is  more  or  less  hidden ;  we  do  not  see  the  sources  of 
its  strength.  The  same  is  true  of  a  stuccoed  or  rough 
cast  building ;  the  eye  sees  nothing  but  smooth,  ex- 
pressionless surface. 

One  great  objection  to  the  Mansard  roof  in  the 
country,  now  happily  nearly  gone  out  of  date,  is  that 
it  fails  to  give  a  look  of  repose.  It  fails  also  to  give 
a  look  of  protection.  The  roof  of  a  building  allies 
it  to  the  open  air,  and  carries  the  suggestion  of  shelter 


278  ROOF-TREE. 

as  no  other  part  does,  and  to  belittle  it,  or  conceal 
it,  or  in  any  way  take  from  the  honest  and  direct 
purport  of  it  as  the  shield,  the  main  matter  after 
all,  is  not  to  be  allowed.  In  the  city  we  see  only 
the  fronts,  the  f^ades  of  the  houses,  and  the  flat  and 
Mansard  are  less  offensive.  But  in  the  country,  the 
house  is  individualized,  stands  defined,  and  every 
vital  and  necessary  part  is  to  be  boldly  and  strongly 
treated.  The  Mansard  gives  to  the  country  house  a 
smart,  dapper  appearance,  and  the  effect  of  being 
perched  up,  and  looking  about  for  compliments ;  such 
houses  seem  to  be  ready  to  make  the  military  salute 
as  you  pass  them.  Whereas  the  steep,  high  roof 
gives  the  house  a  settled,  brooding,  introverted  look. 
It  also  furnishes  a  sort  of  foil  to  the  rest  of  the  build- 
ing. 

What  constitutes  the  charm  to  the  eye  of  the  old- 
fashioned  country  barn  but  its  immense  roof  —  a  slope 
of  gray  shingle  exposed  to  the  weather  like  the  side 
of  a  hill,  and  by  its  amplitude  suggesting  a  bounty 
that  warms  the  heart  ?  Many  of  the  old  farm-houses, 
too,  were  modeled  on  the  same  generous  scale,  and 
at  a  distance  little  was  visible  but  their  great  sloping 
roofs.  They  covered  their  inmates  as  a  hen  covereth 
her  brood,  and  are  touching  pictures  of  the  domestic 
spirit  in  its  simpler  forms. 

What  is  a  man's  house  but  his  nest,  and  why  should 
it  not  be  nest-like  both  outside  and  in  —  coarse,  strong, 
negative  in  tone  externally,  and  snug  and  well-feath- 
ered and  modeled  by  the  heart  within  ?  Why  should 


KOOF-TKEE.  279 

he  set  it  on  a  hill,  when  he  can  command  a  nook  un- 
der the  hill  or  on  its  side  ?  Why  should  it  look  like 
an  observatory,  when  it  is  a  conservatory  and  dormi- 
tory ? 

The  domestic  spirit  is  quiet,  informal,  unceremoni- 
ous, loves  ease,  privacy,  low  tones ;  loves  the  chimney- 
corner,  the  old  arm-chair,  the  undress  garb,  homely 
cares,  children,  simple  pleasures,  etc. ;  and  why  should 
it,  when  it  seeks  to  house  itself  from  the  weather, 
aim  at  the  formal,  the  showy,  the  architectural,  the 
external,  the  superfluous  ?  Let  state  edifices  look 
stately,  but  the  private  dwelling  should  express  pri- 
vacy and  coziness. 

Every  man's  house  is  in  some  sort  an  effigy  of 
himself.  It  is  not  the  snails  and. shell-fish  alone  that 
excrete  their  tenements,  but  man  as  well.  When  you 
seriously  build  a  house,  you  make  public  proclamation 
of  your  taste  and  manners,  or  your  want  of  these.  If 
the  domestic  instinct  is  strong  in  you,  and  if  you  have 
humility  and  simplicity,  they  will  show  very  plainly 
in  your  dwelling ;  if  you  have  the  opposite  of  these, 
false  pride  or  a  petty  ambition,  or  coldness  and  ex- 
clusiveness,  they  will  show  also.  A  man  seldom  builds 
better  than  he  knows,  when  he  assumes  to  know  any- 
thing about  it. 

I  think  that,  on  examination,  it  will  be  found  that 
the  main  secret  of  the  picturesqueness  of  more  simple 
structures,  like  fences,  bridges,  sheds,  log  huts,  etc.,  is 
that  the  motive,  the  principle  of  construction,  is  so 
open  and  obvious.  No  doubt  much  might  be  done 


280  ROOF-TREE. 

to  relieve  the  flatness  of  our  pine-box  houses  by  more 
frankness  and  boldness  in  this  respect.  If  the  eye 
could  see  more  fully  the  necessities  of  the  case,  how 
the  thing  stood  up  and  was  held  together,  that  it  was 
not  pasteboard,  that  it  did  not  need  to  be  anchored 
against  the  wind,  etc.,  it  would  be  a  relief.  Hence 
the  lively  pleasure  we  feel  in  what  are  called  "  timber- 
houses,"  and  in  every  architectural  device  by  which 
the  anatomy,  the  real  framework  of  the  structure,  in- 
side or  out,  is  allowed  to  show,  or  made  to  serve  as 
ornament.  The  eye  craves  lines  of  strength,  evidence 
of  weight  and  stability.  But  in  the  wooden  house, 
as  usually  treated,  these  lines  are  nearly  all  concealed, 
the  ties  and  supports  are  carefully  suppressed,  and 
the  eye  must  feed  on  the  small,  fine  lines  of  the  fin- 
ish. When  the  mere  outlines  of  the  frame  are  in- 
dicated, so  that  the  larger  spaces  appear  as  panels,  it 
is  a  great  help  ;  or  let  any  part  of  the  internal  econ- 
omy show  through,  and  the  eye  is  interested,  as  the 
projection  of  the  chimney-stack  in  brick  or  stone 
houses,  or  the  separating  of  the  upper  from  the  main 
floor  by  a  belt  and  slight  projection,  or  by  boldly  pro- 
jecting the  chamber  floor-joist,  and  letting  one  story 
overlap  the  other. 

As  I  have  already  said,  herein  is  the  main  reason 
of  the  picturesqueness  of  the  stone  house  above  all 
others.  Every  line  is  a  line  of  strength  and  necessity. 
We  see  how  the  mass  stands  up ;  how  it  is  bound  and 
keyed  and  fortified.  The  construction  is  visible  ;  the 
corners  are  locked  by  header  and  stretcher,  and  are 


ROOF-TREE.  281 

towers  of  strength ;  the  openings  pierce  the  walls  and 
reveal  their  cohesion ;  every  stone  is  alive  with  pur- 
pose, and  the  whole  affects  one  as  a  real  triumph  over 
Nature  —  so  much  form  and  proportion  wrested  from 
her  grasp.  There  is  power  in  stone,  and  in  a  less 
measure  in  brick ;  but  wood  must  be  boldly  handled 
not  to  look  frail  or  flat.  Then  unhewn  stone  has  the 
negative  beauty  which  is  so  desirable. 

I  say,  therefore,  build  of  stone  by  all  means,  if  you 
have  a  natural  taste  to  gratify,  and  the  rockier  your 
structure  looks,  the  better.  All  things  make  friends 
with  a  stone  house  —  the  mosses  and  lichens,  and 
vines  and  birds.  It  is  kindred  to  the  earth  and  the 
elements,  and  makes  itself  at  home  in  any  situation. 

When  I  set  out  to  look  up  a  place  in  the  country, 
I  was  chiefly  intent  on  finding  a  few  acres  of  good 
fruit  land  near  a  large  stone-heap.  While  I  was  yet 
undecided  about  the  land,  the  discovery  of  the  stone- 
heap  at  a  convenient  distance,  vast  piles  of  square 
blocks  of  all  sizes,  wedged  off  the  upright  strata  by 
the  frost  during  uncounted  ages,  and  all  mottled  and 
colored  by  the  weather,  made  me  hasten  to  close  the 
bargain.  The  large  country-seats  in  the  neighbor- 
hood were  mainly  of  brick  or  pine ;  only  a  few  of  the 
early  settlers  had  availed  themselves  of  this  beautiful 
material  that  lay  in  such  abundance  handy  to  every 
man's  back-door,  and  in  those  cases  the  stones  were 
nearly  buried  in  white  mortar,  as  if  they  were  some- 
thing to  be  ashamed  of.  Truly,  the  besmeared,  be- 
plastered  appearance  of  most  stone  houses  is  by  no 


282  ROOF-TREE. 

means  a  part  of  their  beauty.  Mortar  plays  a  sub- 
ordinate part  in  a  structure,  and  the  less  we  see  of  it, 
the  better. 

The  proper  way  to  treat  the  subject  is  this:  as 
the  work  progresses,  let  the  wall  be  got  ready  for 
pointing  up,  but  never  let  the  pointing  be  done, 
though  your  masons  will  be  sorely  grieved.  Let  the 
joints  be  made  close,  then  scraped  out,  cut  with  the 
trowel,  and  while  the  mortar  is  yet  green,  sprinkled 
with  sand.  Instead,  then,  of  a  white  band  defining 
every  stone,  you  have  only  sharp  lines  and  seams 
here  and  there,  which  give  the  wall  a  rocky,  natural 
appearance. 

The  point  of  union  between  the  stones,  according 
to  my  eye,  should  be  a  depression,  a  shadow,  and  not 
a  raised  joint.  So  that  you  have  closeness  and  com- 
pactness, the  face  of  your  wall  cannot  be  too  broken 
or  rough.  When  the  rising  or  setting  sun  shines 
athwart  it  and  brings  out  the  shadows,  how  powerful 
and  picturesque  it  looks !  It  is  not  in  cut  or  hewn 
stone  to  express  such  majesty.  I  like  the  sills  and 
lintels  of  undressed  stone  also,  —  "  wild  stone,"  as 
the  old  backwoodsman  called  them,  untamed  by  the 
hammer  or  chisel.  If  the  lintels  are  wide  enough,  a 
sort  of  hood  may  be  formed  over  the  openings  by  pro- 
jecting them  a  few  inches. 

It  seems  to  me  that  I  built  into  my  house  every 
one  of  those  superb  autumn  days  which  I  spent  in  the 
woods  getting  out  stone.  I  did  not  quarry  the  lime- 
stone ledge  into  blocks  any  more  than  I  quarried  the 


ROOF-TREE.  283 

delicious  weather  into  memories  to  adorn  my  walls. 
Every  load  that  was  sent  home  carried  my  heart  and 
happiness  with  it.  The  jewels  I  had  uncovered  in 
the  debris,  or  torn  from  the  ledge  in  the  morning,  I 
saw  in  the  jambs,  or  mounted  high  on  the  corners  at 
night.  Every  day  was  filled  with  great  events.  The 
woods  held  unknown  treasures.  Those  elder  giants, 
frost  and  rain,  had  wrought  industriously ;  now  we 
would  unearth  from  the  leaf  mould  an  ugly  customer, 
a  stone  with  a  ragged  quartz  face,  or  cavernous,  and 
set  with  rock  crystals  like  great  teeth,  or  else  suggest- 
ing a  battered  and  worm-eaten  skull  of  some  old  stone 
dog.  These  I  needed  a  sprinkling  of  for  their  quaint- 
ness,  and  to  make  the  wall  a  true  compendium  of  the 
locality.  Then  we  would  unexpectedly  strike  upon 
several  loads  of  beautiful  blocks  all  in  a  nest ;  or  we 
would  assault  the  ledge  in  a  new  place  with  wedge 
and  bar,  and  rattle  down  headers  and  stretchers  that 
surpassed  any  before.  I  had  to  be  constantly  on  the 
lookout  for  corner  stone,  for  mine  is  a  house  of  seven 
corners,  and  on  the  strength  and  dignity  of  the  cor- 
ners the  beauty  of  the  wall  largely  depends.  But 
when  you  bait  your  hook  with  your  heart,  the  fish  al- 
ways bite.  "  The  boss  is  as  good  as  six  men  in  the 
woods,  getting  out  stone,"  flatteringly  spoke  up  the 
master-mason.  Certain  it  is  that  no  such  stone  was 
found  as  when  I  headed  the  search.  The  men  saw 
indifferently  with  their  eyes ;  but  I  looked  upon  the 
ground  with  such  desire  that  I  saw  what  was  beneath 
the  moss  and  the  leaves.  With  them  it  was  hard 


284  ROOF-TREE. 

labor  at  so  much  per  day,  with  me  it  was  a  passion- 
ate pursuit ;  the  enthusiasm  of  the  chase  venting  it- 
self with  the  bar  and  the  hammer,  and  the  day  was 
too  short  for  me  to  tire  of  the  sport. 

The  stone  was  exceptionally  fine,  both  in  form  and 
color.  Sometimes  it  seemed  as  if  we  had  struck  upon 
the  ruins  of  some  ancient  structure,  the  blocks  were 
so  regular  and  numerous.  The  ancient  stone-cutters, 
however,  had  shaped  them  all  to  a  particular  pattern, 
which  was  a  little  off  the  square,  but  in  bringing  them 
back  with  the  modern  pitching-tool  the  rock  face  was 
gained,  which  is  the  feature  so  desirable. 

I  like  a  live  stone,  one  upon  which  time  makes  an 
impression,  which  in  the  open  air  assumes  a  certain 
tone  and  mellowness.  The  stone  in  my  locality  sur- 
passes any  I  have  ever  seen  in  this  respect.  A  warm 
gray  is  the  ruling  tint,  and  a  wall  built  of  this  stone 
is  of  the  color  of  the  bowl  of  the  beech-tree,  mottled, 
lively,  and  full  of  character. 

What  should  a  house  of  undressed  stone  be  trimmed 
out  with  but  unpainted  wood  ?  Oak,  ash,  cedar, 
cherry,  maple,  —  why  import  pine  from  Michigan  or 
Maine  when  nearly  all  our  woods  contain  plenty  of 
these  materials  ?  And  now  that  the  planing  mills  are 
so  abundant,  and  really  do  such  admirable  work,  an 
ordinary-priced  house  may  be  trimmed  out  mainly  in 
hard  wood  for  nearly  the  same  cost  as  with  pine. 

In  my  case  I  began  at  the  stump  ;  I  viewed  the 
trees  before  they  were  cut,  and  took  a  hand  in  sawing 
them  down  and  hauling  them  to  the  mill.  One  bleak 


ROOF-TREE.  285 

winter  day  I  climbed  to  the  top  of  a  mountain  to  sur- 
vey a  large  butternut  which  some  hunters  had  told 
me  of,  and  which  now,  one  year  later,  I  see  about 
me  in  base  and  panel  as  I  write.  One  thus  gets  a 
lively  background  of  interest  and  reminiscence  in  his 
house  from  the  start. 

The  natural  color  and  grain  of  the  wood  give  a 
richness  and  simplicity  to  an  interior  that  no  art  can 
make  up  for.  How  the  eye  loves  a  genuine  thing; 
how  it  delights  in  the  nude  beauty  of  the  wood  !  A 
painted  surface  is  a  blank,  meaningless  surface  ;  but 
the  texture  and  figure  of  the  wood  is  full  of  expres- 
sion. It  is  the  principle  of  construction  again  appear- 
ing in  another  field.  How  endless  the  variety  of 
figures  that  appear  even  in  one  kind  of  wood,  and, 
withal,  how  modest!  The  grainers  do  not  imitate 
oak.  They  cannot.  Their  surface  glares ;  their  oak 
is  only  skin-deep  ;  their  figures  put  nature  to  shame. 

Oak  is  the  wood  to  start  with  in  trimming  a  house. 
How  clear  and  strong  it  looks  !  It  is  the  master 
wood.  When  allowed  to  season  in  the  log,  it  has  a 
richness  and  ripeness  of  tone  that  are  delicious.  We 
have  many  kinds,  as  rock  oak,  black  oak,  red  oak, 
white  oak,  —  all  equally  beautiful  in  their  place.  Red 
oak  is  the  softest,  and  less  liable  to  spring.  By  com- 
bining two  different  kinds,  as  red  oak  and  white  oak 
(white  oak  takes  its  name  from  the  external  color  of 
the  tree,  and  not  from  the  color  of  the  wood,  which 
is  dark  amber  color),  a  most  pleasing  effect  is  pro- 
duced. 


286  ROOF-TREE. 

Butternut  is  the  softest  and  most  tractable  of  what 
are  called  hard  woods,  and  its  hue  is  eminently  warm 
and  mellow.  Its  figure  is  pointed  and  shooting  — 
a  sort  of  Gothic  style  in  the  grain.  It  makes  admi- 
rable doors.  Western  butternut,  which  can  usually 
be  had  in  the  Albany  market,  makes  doors  as  light 
as  pine,  and  as  little  liable  to  spring.  The  Western 
woods  are  all  better  than  the  Eastern  for  building 
purposes.  They  are  lighter,  coarser,  easier  worked. 
They  grow  easier  and  thriftier.  The  traveler  through 
Northern  Ohio  and  Indiana  sees  a  wonderful  crop  of 
forest  trees,  tall,  uniform,  straight  as  candles,  no 
knots,  no  gnarls,  —  all  clear,  clean  timber.  The  soil 
is  deep  and  moist,  and  the  trees  grow  rank  and  rapid. 
The  chestnut,  ash,  and  butternut  grown  here  work 
like  pine,  besides  being  darker  and  richer  in  color 
than  the  same  woods  grown  in  leaner  and  more  rocky 
soils.  Western  black  ash  is  especially  beautiful.  In 
connection  with  our  almost  bone-white  sugar  maple 
for  panels,  it  makes  charming  doors  —  just  the  thing 
for  chambers,  and  scarcely  more  expensive  than  pine. 
Of  our  Eastern  woods,  red  cedar  is  also  good,  with  its 
pungent,  moth-expelling  odor,  and  should  not  be  neg- 
lected. It  soon  fades,  but  it  is  very  pleasing,  with  its 
hard,  solid  knots,  even  then.  No  doubt  some  wash 
might  be  applied  that  would  preserve  its  color. 

There  is  a  species  of  birch  growing  upon  our  moun- 
tains that  makes  an  admirable  finish.  It  is  usually 
called  red  or  cherry  birch,  and  it  has  a  long  wave  or 
curl  that  is  found  in  no  other  wood.  It  is  very  tough 


v\ 

287 


and  refractory,  and  must  be  secifrfefy^fastened.  A 
black  ash  door,  with  maple  or  white  pine  panels  set 
in  a  heavy  frame  of  this  red,  wavy  birch,  is  a  most 
pleasing  chamber  finish.  For  a  hard  wood  floor,  in 
connection  with  oak  or  ash,  it  is  to  be  preferred  to 
cherry. 

Growing  alongside  of  the  birch  is  the  soft  maple  — 
the  curly  species  —  that  must  not  be  overlooked.  It 
contains  light  wood  and  dark  wood,  as  a  fowl  contains 
.white  meat  and  dark  meat.  It  is  not  unusual  to  find 
a  tree  of  this  species,  the  heart  of  which  will  be  a  rich 
grayish  brown,  suggesting,  by  something  in  the  tone 
and  texture  of  it,  the  rarer  shades  of  silk,  while  the 
outer  part  is  white,  and  fine  as  ivory.  I  have  seen  a 
wainscoting  composed  of  alternate  strips  of  this  light 
and  dark  wood  from  the  same  tree  that  was  exquisite, 
and  a  great  rarity. 

The  eye  soon  tires  of  sharp,  violent  contrasts.  In 
general,  that  which  is  striking,  or  taking  at  first  sight, 
is  to  be  avoided  in  interior  finishings  or  decorations, 
especially  in  the  main  or  living  rooms.  In  halls,  a 
more  pronounced  style  is  permissible,  and  the  contrast 
of  walnut  with  pine,  or  maple,  or  oak  is  more  endur- 
able. What  one  wants  in  his  living  rooms  is  a  quiet, 
warm  tone,  and  the  main  secret  of  this  is  dark  furni- 
ture and  hangings,  with  a  dash  of  color  here  and 
there,  and  floods  of  light,  —  big  windows,  and  plenty 
of  them.  No  room  can  be  cheerful  and  inviting  with- 
out plenty  of  light,  and  then,  if  the  walls  are  light  too, 
and  the  carpets  showy,  there  is  a  flatness  and  garish- 


288  ROOF-TREE. 

ness.  The  marble  mantel  -  piece,  with  its  senseless 
vases,  and  the  marble-topped  centre-table  add  the 
finishing  touch  of  coldness  and  stiffness.  Marble 
makes  good  tombstones,  but  it  is  an  abomination  in  a 
house,  either  in  furniture  or  in  mantels. 

There  remains  only  to  be  added  that  after  you  have 
had  the  experience,  after  the  house  is  finished  and 
you  have  had  a  year  or  two  to  cool  off  in  (it  takes 
that  long),  you  will  probably  feel  a  slight  reaction. 
Or,  it  may  be  more  than  that ;  the  scales  may  fall 
from  your  eyes,  and  you  may  see  that  it  is  not  worth 
while  after  all  to  lay  so  much  emphasis  on  the  house, 
a  place  to  shelter  you  from  the  elements,  and  that 
you  have  had  only  a  different,  but  the  same  unworthy 
pride  as  the  rest,  as  if  anything  was  not  good  enough, 
and  as  if  manhood  was  not  sufficient  to  itself  without 
these  props. 

You  will  have  found,  too,  that  with  all  your  pains 
you  have  not  built  a  house,  nor  can  you  build  one, 
that  just  fills  the  eye  and  gives  the  same  aesthetic 
pleasure  as  does  the  plain  unpainted  structure  that 
took  no  thought  of  appearances,  and  that  has  not  one 
stroke  about  it  foreign  to  the  necessities  of  the  case. 

Pride,  when  it  is  conscious  of  itself,  is  death  to  the 
nobly  beautiful,  whether  in  dress,  manners,  equipage, 
or  house-building.  The  great  monumental  structures 
of  the  Old  World  show  no  pride  or  vanity,  but  on  the 
contrary  great  humility  and  singleness  of  purpose. 
The  Gothic  cathedral  does  not  try  to  look  beautiful ; 
it  is  beautiful  from  the  start,  and  entirely  serious. 


ROOF-TREE.  289 

London  Bridge  is  a  heroic  resolution  in  stone,  and 
apparently  has  but  one  purpose,  and  that  is  to  carry 
the  paved  street  with  all  its  surging  masses  safely 
over  the  river. 

Unless,  therefore,  you  have  had  the  rare  success  of 
building  without  pride,  your  house  will  offend  you  by 
and  by,  and  offend  others. 

Perhaps  after  one  had  graduated  in  this  school  and 
built  four  or  five  houses,  he  would  have  the  courage 
to  face  the  problem  squarely,  and  build,  much  more 
plainly  and  unpretentiously,  a  low,  nestling  structure 
of  undressed  boards,  or  unhammered  stone,  and  be 
content,  like  the  oyster,  with  the  roughest  of  shells 
without,  so  that  he  be  sure  of  the  mother-of-pearl 
within. 


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